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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

Chap..!--., Copyright No. 

Shelf..5.-^-. 



UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



UNCLE ISAAC 



OR 



OLD DAYS IN THE SOUTH. 




"MK AND MV REBECCV.' 



UNCLE ISAAC: 



OR 



Old Days in the South. 



A REMEMBRANCE OF THE SOUTH. 



By WILLIAM DUDLEY POWERS. 



" I have considered the days of old, the years of ancient times, 
call to remembrance my song in the night." — Psalms Ix.wii, 6, 7. 



RICHMOND: 

B. F. JOHNSON PUBLISHING CO. 
1899. 



1 






39460 

COPYRIGHTED. 

W1L1.1AM Dudley Powers. 
1899. 



JUL 2^ 1899 ) 




-\^ 



TO 

HOWARD AND DUDLEY, 

WITH THE WISH 

THAT THEY MAY LOOK BACK ONE GENERATION BEHIND 

THEIR FATHER'S 

FOR 

AN EXAMPLE AND AN INSPIRATION. 



PREFACE, 



Maturity had not marked the author of this volume for its 
victim — maturity means responsibility and care and labor — when 
the revolution in Southern life was had, and its recent fashions 
and ways were transferred to legend and song, and its exanimate 
factors to the philosophy of histoi-y. With the civil war the atony 
of a lost thunder trembled in the air, and a generation of South- 
ern people felt that a Summer was ended. But a disappearing 
immaturity— of years — located him then in a time of life, when 
impressions are most securely fixed in memory's safest place. 
He has not forgotten, and not forgetting, he has fancied that he 
must remind those who may forget, of the glad and better things 
of the past, which may still follow life for good, and preserve 
something of the old inspirations for those who can get them 
only from one who does not forget. 

"But how will the North take your book?" asked a friend, 
when the manuscript was read to him, and the question gave the 
publication pause. Reflection, however, brought the conscious- 
ness of the fact that the North was not over against the South, 
unfriendly. The North, the South, the East, and the West are 
the Union, and what is of value in history or tradition, and a 
pleasure of remembrance in one section must be of some value 
and of some charm to the whole country. The author had read 
with pleasant appreciation the idyls of New England, and it 
must be true that the New Englander will read with like satis- 

[II] 



1 2 Preface. 

faction the pastorals of the South. Then came the recollection 
of an incident, which as the interpretation of national friendship, 
that relationship which binds the people of the far separated 
sections together, convinced him that he need have no alarm 
about the sympathy of book-readers anywhere in the nation on 
this score. 

Sitting one afternoon upon the porch of a hospitable house 
in Riverdale, where he had spent several happy days, the writer 
in reply to a requisition was tendered a match from a gold match 
case by his friend and host. The beauty of the case attracted 
him, and in the conversation which ensued, he learned that it 
had a story, and this is the story: 

One morning toward the summer of 1865, a lad}' sent her card 
into the private office of a well-to-do New York gentleman. She 
was admitted. The gentleman, after courteouslj' receiving her, 
asked to what he owed the honor of the call. 

She replied, that she was a Southern lad}' in some distress, 
and had called to solicit his assistance. 

Through the devastation incident upon the war, just closed, 
she added, she had been left with a plantation, but without seed 
or implements or mules, or money to purchase these necessary 
articles of equipment, and with no other possible source of sup- 
port. Could she procure five hundred dollars, she was quite 
sure that she could make the plantation yield an income sufficient 
for the maintenance of her family, the payment of the interest, 
and presently for the liquidation of the debt. She then requested 
of him the loan of the five hundred dollars. 

In utter astonishment at her request, he said: " Why, madam, 
I do not know you at all." 

" I know that," she replied. 

" Have you any security to offer me? " 

"None, sir," she said. 



Preface. 13 

"Then how can j-ou expect me to advance you this money, 
and why do you apply to me? " 

"Because," she answered, " I have heard that you are a gen- 
erous, sympathetic man, and I believed you would appreciate my 
situation, and help me if you could. I am a lady, in much em- 
barrassment; I must appeal to some one; I selected you. I will 
certainly return you the five hundred dollars with interest." 

Something in her manner and speech, and the pathos of the 
situation prepossessed him to grant her most remarkable request, 
and in spite of the conviction that he was doing a probably very 
absurd thing, he lent her the money. 

Year by year the interest was regularly paid, and after some 
years had passed, she called again at his office, returned him the 
principal, and presented him with this gold match case, asking 
him to keep it as a token of her appreciation of his kindness. 
She told him that she had taken some of her jewelry to Tiffany's, 
and out of it the match case had been made. On the top of the 
case there was engraved the name of " William H. Appleton." 
The name of a man given to such actions should be remembered 
with his deeds, and, therefore, in violation of his wish, doubt- 
less, had it been asked, his name has been printed here. 

With the remembrance of this instance of Northern gener- 
osity to a Southern appeal came the certain belief, that those of 
the family in the one part of the Union would be glad to know 
somewhat of the story of the family in the other, and that 
he who is there, while he might smile at the writer's simple 
pleasure, would look at his pictures in sympathy, criticising, it 
may be, the attempted literary work of a man, but not the happy 
facts of a life. So this book is published. Dixi et salvavi ani- 
jnam ineam. W. D. P. 



Note. — The phonetics of the negro Dialect have been required 
to sustain some violence through the orthography used in this 



1 4 Preface. 

book. But this has been done in order to facilitate an easy 
understanding among those readers who are not familiar with 
the tongue of this picturesque figure of the ancient regime. It 
should be borne in mind that the final "t" in such words as 
" warn't, ain't, don't," etc., is never sounded. The author finds 
his excuse for sacrificing the dialect in the benefit accruing to 
the unfamiliar reader. 

The Author. 



CONTBNTS. 



When and JJViere Uncle Isaac Lived. 

Uncle Isaac' s Christmas Recollections. 

Wlicn ]Marse Ran' Got Kilt. 

De Sundays an' De ' Ligion Datis Gone. 

Uncle Isaac's Experience Willi New Things. 

Marse Ran's Hoss. 

Uncle Isaac Has Dfore Experience. 

Uncle Isaac's Lajnent. 

The Passing of Rebecca. 

Uncle Isaac in the Song. 

The Passing of Uncle Isaac. 

The Old Song. 

Maviniy. 



WHEN AND WHERE UNCLE ISAAC LIVED. 



WHEN AND WHERE UNCLE ISAAC LIVED. 



THE TRANSITIONS of civilization and the revo- 
lutions in social conditions are swifter than we 
wist. Not a great many years ago, as the older 
generation looks back, the last wearer of knicker- 
bockers could be seen on his favorite stroll. He was 
an old gentleman then, it is true, with all the charac- 
teristics of his generation, but as with the stately 
tread of his day he walked down Cary street, he gave 
no consciousness of the fact that he was in any wise 
conspicuous. In his grave with him they buried the 
small clothes, the silk stockings, and the silver 
buckles, and the generation swept on to other 
fashions. 

Age had hardly marked his successor, the wearer 
of the blue swallow-tail, with its brass buttons, and the 
red bandanna, for its victim, when again there was a 
change. A more intense crisis thrust itself upon a 

[19] 



20 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 

people, and within the stretch of their every horizon 
wrought change. The substratum everywhere of gov- 
ernment and society was made to feel a revolutionary 
touch, and as with the stern finger of fate it first de- 
stroyed every condition of the old life, it then under- 
took its reconstruction. Five years were consumed 
in its work, and when they had expired between these 
people and the past there was a great gulf fixed, and 
it was impassable. The old life was gone forever, a 
civilization was remodeled, and the spirit of Southern 
life had witnessed its own metempsychosis. All things 
were new. 

But rapid indeed as has been this change, or these 
changes, the children of the fathers have easily be- 
come accustomed to them. The old days and their 
fashions and habits have been apparently all too soon 
fixed in history as prosaic facts of a mechanical re- 
cord, the generation that is feels the force of the older 
life only through the law of heredity, and in the sen- 
timent of the legend, and to those who had some part 
in their lingering peace and happiness there is left 
only the wake of a white remembrance, down which 



WJicn and Where Uncle Isaac Lived. 21 

they look and sigh. The past has become a " song 
in tlie night." 

But those days and their civihzation must stand for 
something', and that something must have its vahie. 
In them was the fashioning of those ancestors, and 
the people of to-day may be proud of them, who 
were the potent factors in the making of the nation, 
and who determined the early trend of the present 
life and character. In the nobler impulses now and 
the stronger integrity to which men hearken, there 
is the echo of a voice that has long been silent except 
in the echo. 

For veer the heading as you will, transform the 
conditions, and shift the social structure to other con- 
creted foundation, its past must still operate in the 
building character, remonstrate before questionable 
introductions, and stand for ideals. A nation's le- 
gends and traditions indicate the climb of its heights. 
The critics' sneer at the past, their condemnation of 
its thought when applied to this time of new move- 
ments, and the smile of these unwitting folk at their 
own fantastic stories of the older days, are travesties 



2 2 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the Soiifli. 

upon the philosophy of history, and treason to that 
which should have ordered a notable loyalty. More 
than this, the intensity which they have sometimes ex- 
hibited in their adverse reflections have created the 
suspicion that the underlying motive was not sincere, 
and the attem]:)t was not so much to reach just con- 
clusions and to impress them as to tickle a majority, 
who were supposed, and similarly unjustly, to be 
without sympathy for the past of these people, and 
inexorably arrayed against all their previous life and 
character. The immediate inspiration, one cannot 
help but suspect, was the fancied sight of a demoral- 
ized market adapted to and ready for the sale of such 
dishonest stuiT. 

Never for a moment has any man had cause to be 
ashamed for the fathers' past or the high demands in 
those days of their chivalry, generosity, and refine- 
ment. Nor must the heritage be lost. It is worth 
too much. But history will not preserve its precious 
facts for us as they really were, nor let them move 
among us forcefully as factors or with any accom- 
panying enthusiasm. History is cold and its facts 



JVJicn and Where Uncle Isaac Lived. 23 

are chilled. Life-bnilding- factors must be warm with 
a soul-inspiration if they shall affect us for good. And 
if these factors be flown out of history that soul-inspi- 
ration must needs be the sentiment of their day, a 
sentiment persuaded into action by legend and the 
unworded epic of a reverenced ancestry. Sentiment 
is poetry, and poetry is that impulse of life that makes 
the toiler sing as he toils. Facts without sentiment 
are dead things. So it shall not be so much the histo- 
rian as the singer with his truth in romance, who shall 
best set to work among us, and perpetuate for that 
work, the reminiscences of our forefathers, which are 
good and worth the memory. 

Something has already been done along this line, 
but genius has yet a well-nigh ungarnered field in 
which he may gather, and from which he may ^•ehicle 
the ideals of the South's past in the romance of lit- 
erature. The writer of this bit of a volume recog- 
nizes in himself no ability to perform any such task. 
But he dares to undertake to give a detail or two of 
that old life that is gone, which with its full story he 
would fain have fresh in the memorv of the South 



24 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 

forever, and whose exquisite simplicity, the simpHcity 
of a very real refinement, cannot help but aid and 
purify our civilization and culture in this luff of its 
destiny. In even in a bit of recollection there is, for 
some of us at least, something of the sweet things of 
the past. 

Not far from the banks of the Appomattox the old 
house stands. It was built in the early days of the 
century, but it has grown much since its original 
owner died, and in obedience to the exactions of a 
constantly unsatisfied hospitality, until it has reached 
the edge of the hill. Its rooms are large and many, 
and its halls, sometimes broad and sometimes nar- 
row, follow no straight line as they lead to the various 
chambers and reception rooms. The green room is 
here, around the first angle is the blue, further on 
still is the red room, and above and to the left is the 
haunted room. It was always haunted. Certainly in 
the remembrance of all who knew the house the fact 
that it was haunted had long been fixed. Every occu- 
pant of that room had been initiated into fright by 
queer murmurs and well breathed sighs. There was 



When and Where Uncle Isaac Lived. 25 

evidently an uncanny resident in that room, and the 
family became so accustomed to his continuance that 
his freakish sounds were catalogued among the natu- 
ral noises of the household. They were all wont from 
time to time to fall asleep in the midst of his peculiar- 
ities. 

A trellis of roses enclosed the front porch, and to 
the fore lay a circle of hollyhocks, princess feather, 
touch-me-nots, roses, violets, and heart's-ease. 
Around these flowers the roadway, roughly macad- 
amized with a crystal rock, wound to the avenue of 
oaks and poplars, sentineled by a tall pine, the land- 
mark of all the countryside, and out and beyond, the 
avenue between fields of the golden grain, or stac- 
catoed with the green of Virginia's staple. On the 
other side of the house the grove sloped up to the 
shadowing of the eaves, and separating it from the 
garden spread a hundred yards or so in either direc- 
tion. Squirrels populated it, who were sufficiently 
intimate to accept anything in the shape of squirrel 
luxury offered them by the children. 

From any door a fascinating scene developed. 



26 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 

Large oaks scattered through the iinfenced yard cast 
a velvet shade on the grass in the day, or at night 
sifted the moonHght. Oh, those oaks ! How many 
thousand \\atermelons, ice-cold, have been tasted in 
that shade ! That's the recollection coming from the 
boy. How many times the story, the old, old story, 
has been told in that shade, and listened to ! That's 
the reminiscence of a little later day. How many a 
game of backgammon and of chess has been played 
there ! That's the remembrance of the old exile. 
Down the vista between the oaks the symmetrical 
pines, here and there, straightened themselves above 
the gold of the wheat and the green of the tobacco, 
and near the tracery of a winding thread of darker 
green the brook chaunted. But they called it then 
the " branch." 

Turning within, the floor lay mellowed, dark, and 
polished like glass. Woe to the urchin who forgot 
to wipe his feet on the door mat before he trod that 
dry-rubbed hall ! A calamity of malediction fell uj^on 
him did the matron or the butler prove or severely 
suspect him the culprit. It was generally a nuisance 



JJlicii and JVIici'c Uncle Isaac Lived. 27 

to him, and in rainy weather, when the red mud 
showed plainly, an alx^mination. Parlor and dining 
room, and chaml^ers as well, save when the carpets 
or mattings were down, had the same care and polish. 

Here the family lived and entertained, and rare was 
the day wdien the breakfast or the dinner table was 
without a guest, and rare was the night when no 
guest occupied a chamber in that house. For to call 
in those days meant to stay at least a night and a 
portion of a day. They are all well-nigh gone now, 
that old family and its contemporaries, generous and 
hospitable, true and brave and gentle. This is just 
a memory of them. 

The tall, lithe father, who smiled in conscious 
pleasure when the opportunity to welcome a guest 
occurred, is gone. Strong in the integrity of true 
character, he was stern before all wrong, and gentle 
at all other times. About him hovered a family's 
affection, the neighborhood was the residence of his 
friends, and near him stood the colored folk as in the 
presence of a friend. The cabins and the house alike 
loved and reverenced him. He was a scholarly pro- 



28 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 

duct of the University, and courteous with an ancient 
courtesy, devoted to those who loved him or were 
dependent upon him. Every night he sat in the par- 
lor before the great fireplace concealed in the sum- 
mer behind the graceful foliage of the asparagus, 
where, surrounded by family and guest, he read the 
Holy Word of God and sped a prayer heavenward. 
His was a character shaped by a chivalrous genera- 
tion, taught of the scholars, and refined in the im- 
pulses of the Christian Religion. 

Matching the man was the matron, and noble the 
husband noble the wife. They have folded her 
hands, and she too is asleep. They were chivalry 
and purity wedded. A twain made one. Stately in 
her motions, and gentle in her manners she graced 
the house, and in the charming delicacy of the ways 
that belonged to her day and generation the gentle- 
man found his inspiration to gallantry and honor. 
No impure thing met the eyes of her daughters in 
the home and conversation that in any degree dan- 
gerously approached the questionable was impossible 
where she reie'ued the soul of refinement. Her sons 



U'licii and JJlicrc Uncle Isaac Lived. 29 

must needs have been gentlemen, and her daughters 
could be naught but maidens made fair by the touch 
of such modesty and refinement. 

There are yet many in this day of fret and hurry — 
why may it not be said, many of us? It cannot be 
wrong or impolite to put one's self in the company 
of which he is proud — aye, many of us, who can look 
back and see them as they sat with us on the rose- 
scented porch or rambled pleasantly down the avenue. 
Their white muslin with the waist ribbon of blue 
was enough of attractive gowning for them, and no 
additional ornament to the flower caught in the 
brown hair was needed. We walked with innocence 
when we walked with them, and a true gentility could 
have had no happier inspiration. They were the 
touch of a high civilization. 

In the evening after prayers, maij and girl, they 
sang the ballads of that day. Perhaps no appreciable 
description of those evenings can be given until the 
genius comes, but we can hear again, some of us, I 
know, those sweet voices interpret " Robin Adair," 
'' Coming Thro' the Rye," and " O Don't You Re- 



so Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 

member Sweet Alice, Ben Bolt." It may be that the 
rendition was not scientific, nor even classical, bnt 
it w^as exquisite in its witchery of purity, and winning 
in the fresh melody of the girl whose soul had been 
taught in the always chaunting nave of Nature. The 
men were their brothers, and the men were gentle- 
men. 

These were the ladies and the men who were to 
make, in the opportunities of patriotism and where 
the battle joined, the fame of a chivalry, and the re- 
cord of a courage which the world shall never forget. 
Where the little star-crossed guidon is found, torn 
and shot-marked, there is the token of the strength 
of that inspiration and the sign of that gallant bear- 
ing. They were the sweet spirits that urged men to 
glory, and they were the grey clad heroes of an 
everlasting remembrance. 

Behind the house and down the slope of the hill 
the gravelled way led toward the spring — sweet 
spring where the evening sun often found boy and 
girl, or man and maiden drinking the cool water, and 
merry in conversation. Perhaps they were a bit in- 



WJicn and Where Uncle Isaac Lived. 31 

clined to words of dearer import sometimes — and 
who could resist the romance of such scenes in that 
contented, white day of the Sunny South? 

The oaks stretched their branches over the walk. 
A dozen steps from the last door fetched the fringe 
of cedars, another passed them, and there on one 
side stood Mary Caesar with her churn full of butter- 
milk ready for any boy or o-irl who had brought a 
cup along. Close to her was the dairy and the ice- 
house, and across the way the kitchen. Over its 
fireplace, in which a rail went without forcing, Uncle 
Nat, a real bit of polished, animated ebony, reigned 
supreme, and who for the asking, with a word of 
hospitality spoken in the negro's quaint way, but 
learned from the generous master, stood as ready 
to give a hce-cake, the natural accompaniment to 
Mary Caesar's buttermilk, but the making of which 
is now a lost art and the meal of which it was made, 
rich and sweet, is gone as well. 

The people of to-day would stand in amazement 
in that ancient kitchen. Its pot-hooks, its ovens 
with their coal-covered lids, the roasting pig, the 



32 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 

broiling mutton, the baking ham, the basting fowl, 
the innumerable things that were ever appetizing and 
creating a longing for dinner, and above all the old 
white-crowned, black face shining in a natural polish, 
with its unmistakably tyrannical voice, but bent to 
hospitable intention — don't you wish you were back 
there and hungry? The beaten way \yidened past the 
kitchen, invading, on both sides, the ground once 
belonging to grass. It was worn by many a year of 
marble-playing boys, and by many a night's double 
shuffle and back-stepping when old John, with his 
banjo, was coaxed into the light of the full moon. 
Thence it wound hard by the smoke-house full of 
bacon, hams and shoulders and sides, a rich, old 
greasy treasure house. Its mate, in which the gro- 
ceries for a couple of hundred or more people were 
stored, stood over against it across the road. Now 
the narrowing road, crossed with many a path and 
intersection, rambled among the cabins of the colored 
folk, the vassals — vassals, yes, and happy. Clean and 
neat these cabins were, and marked with the sign 
of contentment. 



When and Where Uncle Isaac Lived. 33 

So the wandering' took the stroller by Uncle Julius' 
home, and to the door of Lucy's and Peyton's, where 
the boys, in a time of unusual hunger, went to per- 
suade a treat of scrambled eggs and hoe-cake, and to 
the spring. Cool and clear it bubbled in the shade of 
the pines in the dell at the foot of the three hills, hills 
that were dotted with the homes of the quiet colored 
folk of the old times. The bath house stood on one 
side, and the wheat waved out of sight on the other. 
Could the moving shadows that play between the 
spring and the tobacco barn repeat the stories to 
which they listened in that old time, they would de- 
light us with many a scrap of lovely romance. 

Along the path around the hill, and a mile away, 
the waters of the Appomattox, river of the sad history, 
run under the cotton-woods and the willows, and 
sometimes boisterously over the rocks. Between 
the river and the spring are the lowgrounds. In the 
evening through their bordering pines once there 
came the drifting song of the hands as they wound 
their way homeward. It was a quaint old song they 

3 



34 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 

sang, and in it was content, and the note of the coax- 
ing rest of the closing day. 

A sharp turn out of the head of the avenue and a 
hundred or more yards away stood the stable in its 
ample yard. Its double doors, always ajar, opened 
a vista of stalls filled with riding and driving horses, 
and rows of mules, whose crunching of the corn was 
interrupted by the whinny of the satisfied guest. 
Parallel with it ran the long crib. In the front of this 
building, on a winter's night, a great pile of corn 
would sometime lie, and in it and on it a crowd 
of black folk shucking, the pannikin of whiskey 
passing a little too frequently, perhaps. A cheerful 
scene it was withal, softly noisy with the strange 
aria of their monologue of music, and a picture of 
glee and of toil without conscious sweat. 

Along the road-side from the avenue to the gran- 
ary, peach and apple trees grew, and here and there, 
were scattered in the fields, which, l)arring a late frost, 
afforded fruit for all during the summer. But two 
miles away is the orchard, and its hornets' nests, 
and its green apples, and the battle,- and the flight — 



When and Where Uncle Isaac Lived. 35 

not of the hornets. Then a reach of aromatic pines, 
and the lake and the mill. On the top of the red hill 
is the granary where the threshing and the garnering 
were had, and from its rick of straw radiated the paths 
down which the boys were wont to hurry in the early 
morning all excited in the examination of the hare 
traps, and the securing of the spoil. 

" Rosemary, that's for reniembrance." 

It is morning. The mists are curling up from the 
river. The grey touches the dark horizon of the East. 
Beneath the big yard oak, the master winds the clear 
note of the horn, and from the cabins by hill and dale 
the contented hands go to their several occupations. 
The hours creep on toward well past the sunrise, 
and the " Good Mornings " greet one and another 
of the family and the guests like a benediction. Such 
indeed they are. The jtilep — smack your lips O ! 
connoisseur, in a nectareous reminiscence — or the 
toddy is served by the butler, old and courteous, 
proud of his lineage — he and the family are one 
in aristocratic right — which is, in his opinion, suf- 



^6 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 

ficiently indicated by his swallow-tailed coat and 
brass buttons, and emphasized by a mannerism that 
defies imitation. It is in him grotesque perhaps, but 
the accurate counterpart of the gentleman whom he 
serves. 

The morning passes swiftly along. The matron 
metes out the rations, enough and to spare, and 
orders the dinner, and settles herself to that superin- 
tendence in general that constitutes the rest of her 
pleasant domestic responsibility. The gentleman 
rides to the fields, and in chat and stroll, and it may 
be with a wistful glance revealing the refining motion 
of a tender passion the younger people forget the 
slipping hours. But before that those girls have 
done their assigned duties in the household, and 
have surely read a chapter in the Holy Bible. 

Then across field and stream the winding horn 
sounds the fact of noon, and luncheon, and rest. But 
not luncheon, " snack." Dinner it is in the fields, 
under the shade of the walnut or the peach. The 
ash-cake, the rich, red gravy, the broiled bacon, 
and the molasses tickle the appetite, and the ice-cold 



JVIioi ami JVlicrc Uncle Isaac Lived. 37 

buttermilk, the champagne of Virginia, washes it 
all down. Certain remembrances are synonymous 
with sacred hunger. 

yVgain the sweep and swish of the cradles in the 
wheat is heard, and the weird chant sturdily sung of 
the rivals as they give themselves enthusiasm and en- 
couragement, and the chorus in which, under the self- 
appointed and cordially recognized leader, all join, 
cradlers, binders, and children. The bay of a hound 
interrupts the chant and Molly Cotton-tail exploiting 
her fright bolts across the stubble. Down drops the 
cradle, the sheaf, the bundle, over turns the half 
made shock, and away go they all in the hurry of the 
chase. 

Around the angles of the halls, the dinner bell sum- 
mons to the dining room. But that dinner need not 
be described here, the aroma of Uncle Nat's kitchen 
has already escaped, and besides Uncle Isaac will, 
by and by, give his happy recollections of that meal, 
and still again, as he would say, it would make you 
too " hongry." Then followed the dolcc far iiiciite 
of the Southern plantation. It was the time of the 



38 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 

nap, or the time to read, or to write for the evening's 
mail. 

The hours skip again, and the day gets softer. 
The gentlemen are gathering from the fields and 
woods, new guests are riding down the avenue, and 
the house is exiling the family reconciled by the 
evening air. The trees are beginning their songs, 
the flow of the river is slowing, the swallows make 
high merriment, the hogs are driven from the acorn 
mast of the forest toward the pen, the sheep drift 
toward the cooler parts of the pasture, and from the 
stable the neigh of the horse falls into the harmony. 
They walk, these sweet Southern folk, they sing again, 
they speak soft whispered words along the avenue, the 
bench under the maple listens to a story told often 
there before. It is so beautiful. It is so quiet. It is 
so winning. The glad days of the " long ago " tempt 
one out of the right line and the writing of a book's 
chapter into soliloquy. 

Oh, Dee, come look again into this old face with 
those beautiful eyes ! Oh, Nan, come romp a bit 
down the path, we will frighten the covey out of 



When and Where Uncle Isaac Lived. 39 

their nest once more ! Oh, Cousin AHce, sing- again 
" Ben Bolt " I Peyton, saddle the horses once again, 
and let us ride through Ocmulgee to where the red 
fox runs ! Come boys, and as in the old days " lets " 
ride the dawn away. Who'll bring the trophy home? 
Hark, hark, hark-a-way Music, and Fashion, Black 
Dick, and Rover ! Jolt us along the road Isaac, to 
the old Brick Church or to Grub Hill, and we will 
worship as before in " sincerity and truth." What 
is ten miles to Church ! It will be an all-day meeting. 
Everybody will be there. We will dine out of the 
basket on the grass in the woods again ! 



II. 

The civilization of the ancient rea"ime in the South 
was a picturesque civiHzation. A feudahsm there was, 
it is true, and projected into the nineteenth century, 
but a feudahsm stripped of those conditions, which, 
making it cruel, had exiled it from the older countries, 
and now- so modified by that spirit of gentleness 
which makes everything great that it furnished the 
unique opportunity for that life in the Southern 
States which charmed all who touched it. Ruling 
in this feudalism, the Southern people were a refined 
and hospitable people, and their land was quiet, con- 
tent, and happy. Whether then it were right or 
wrong this feudalism produced that which is gone and 
may never return, a picturesque life filled with ro- 
mance and peace. In those days there was a knight- 
errantry as gallant and as true as when the lady's 
glove was caught in the steel headgear of the cavalier, 
and the winning graces of the lady were a stateliness 
of generous courtesy that compelled a willing respect 

[41] 



42 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 

as it made plain a genuine cordiality of welcome hos- 
pitality. And when those days were departed, they 
had well-nigh buried the 'Cavaliers. Their generation 
was also of the past. Their social system and their 
notion of the sovereignty of government they believed 
ideal. But whether or no that was true, what fetched 
so beautiful a life could not then have been all wrong. 

Touch those times and you have touched a high 
impulse of humanity. Go back to them and you 
breathe in an atmosphere of gentle refinement. Few 
can recall a fair cheek then mantled with shame, and 
rare was the man, the gentleman, who at sometime 
had not found an inspiration to chivalry in the gentle 
character and sweet purity of the Southern maiden. 
Like the music of birds, we believe, was the Hfe in the 
Southland. 

There were vassals, but the vassal was loved by the 
lord of the manor. The lady so refined and gentle 
that the caste feeling was forgotten, met and touched 
and spoke to those who must come and go at her 
bidding in such manifest friendship that the tie which 
bound them one to the other was that of affection 



JJlicii Olid JJlwrc Uncle Isaac Lived. 43 

rather than that of ownership. On the plantation 
there was an esprit dii corps which was as strong" 
among the one caste as among the other. This 
feudalism, which, in large part made the South char- 
acteristically the South, was a poetic thing, without 
tyranny, and working no wrong', save where men 
were bad, and bad men will be, and bad men will 
disturb any relationship. 

Perhaps, doubtless the institution of slavery was 
an error lingering in the land. Its time of correction 
had not come, and in so far as that was true it was 
still doing a good work. But was it an error? The 
rationale of history rather persuades us to believe 
it a factor in a progressing civilization, disappearing 
when its task was done. Regard it as you will, it 
was, in these days of which we think, a factor in the 
process of development of the people, who are made 
the subject of much pity, pity which thev did not 
either seek or appreciate, and for which they knew no 
occasion. Strange as this may appear, it is true. It 
had taken them out of the crassest moral turpitude, 
separated them from barbarism, and placed them 



44 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 

in the school of civiHzation, with all its possibilities 
of destiny before them. It may have been one of the 
" growing pains " of humanity's upward struggle. 
But, be it what it may. it gave the slave his oppor- 
tunity now in full fruition, and it was a potent factor 
in the old life of the South. 

The chivalry and the gentility of the land was per- 
petuated in some degree by the conditions which 
naturally environed such a system, but it was in no 
wise fictitious. These exquisite elements of society 
had been brought to the South by the near descend- 
ants of English and Scottish belted knights and 
those of the sturdy yeomen who fought under them. 
The Huguenots had given them a vivacious strain, 
and in the Spotswoods, the Randolphs, the Lees, 
the Fairfaxes, and many another family of like posi- 
tion what had been natural with them across the 
waters was of necessity natural with them in Vir- 
ginia. 

But since glimpses are likely to- leave wrong im- 
pressions about that not emphasized in them, it must 
be borne in mind that this life in the older davs of the 



IV hen and JVliere Uncle Isaac Lived. 45 

South was not spent in wastral dissipation or idleness. 
There was no laziness, either of thoug-ht or action. 
On the nation's register of fame Southern names are 
largely written, and on the record of good works 
there are w'ages to their credit. When the republic 
had need of statecraft Southern men along such lines 
did noble w-ork. The Bill of Rights, the Declaration 
of Independence, and the accomplishments of the 
first Congresses testify to that. Nor may the country 
ever forget or ignore, whatever the critic may say, 
or however he may sneer, the notable works of Jeffer- 
son, Marshall, Clay, Calhoun, Toombs, and Hill, 
and many another of ability and usefulness. When in 
the time of war she made requisition for soldiers, the 
South showed no lack and could feel no shame for 
her furnishment. Washington, Andrew Jackson, 
Scott, Thomas, Lee, and Stonewall Jackson are men 
of national and of international reputation as of 
Southern birth. Not by any means is there intima- 
tion of any foolish exaltation in this, or that the 
North did not do her portion of the work or send to 
the nation's legislatures and the nation's wars men 



46 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the SoutJi. 

who, distinguishing themselves, gave the nation a 
right to be proud. That was true, too. But a sketch 
of a bit of landscape does not require a description 
of the earth, and in this brief note of a speck of 
Southern life the omission of any mention of those 
other portions of the Union must not at all imply a 
criticism or neglect of them. 

Nor may the South be taunted with a lack of place 
in literature. A reading people may be as literary as 
those who write, and what the authors published, the 
South bought and read. Books then, and especially 
the standard ones, were channeled more steadily from 
the publishing houses to the Southern gentleman's 
study, perhaps, than now. When this era closed the 
Southern man was just recovering from the idea in- 
herited from his ancestors, that it ill became a gentle- 
man to sell books. He therefore did not care to 
write. But it had its literature. In the polemics of 
political economy more than one Southern man 
showed himself at home, and easily the peer of his 
contemporaries. Sometime the sweet spirit of song 
inspired a Southern soul, whose music has not died. 



When and Where Uncle Isaac Lived. 47 

Such were Edgar Allen Poe, Henry Timrod, and 
Sydney Lanier, and others, and a long list of writers 
of desultory poems, many of which were gems, and 
stood as exponents of the possibilities of Southern 
poets. The Southern Literary Magazine, when 
ruined and stopped by the civil war, had established 
for itself both a place and a support in its particular 
field. Sometime as well, the field of romance was 
gleaned by a Southern gleaner, witness the Partisan, 
The Scout, Katherine Walton, and some others of 
William Gilmore Simms. In his Woodcraft there is 
a rich vein of humor, and Porgy is a creation of which 
any writer might be proud. And in the more sober 
and stronger works some goodly tasks were done. 
That it did not do more in literary work is not sur- 
prising. The conditions of its society, and the 
notions fixed upon it in the past forbade. But these 
thoughts belong to the historian, and really had no 
place in this little book's intention. It only desired 
to go back to a spot in the past, when Uncle Isaac 
and his ilk lived and loved. 

Would that its readers and its writer could have 



48 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 

been taken there in the coach with its folding steps, 
and its boot for the guest's or the family's trunk, 
the seat on which the boy's surreptitious ride was so 
often pleasantly secured. But the coach, too, is gone 
with the knickerbockers, the swallow-tail, Uncle Isaac 
and his gentle folk of that day. 

But Uncle Isaac shall posthumously tell of these 
days himself, and what he says is true. His testimony 
may not be impeached. 

It is quite true that that requires a considerable 
draft upon the credulity of some people, but many 
there are yet who will give him all necessary corro- 
boration. In the mouth of many witnesses what he 
says may be established. Indeed the incredulous are 
incredulous only because they did not take advantage 
of the opportunity, once afforded, to see, or lived too 
late to see him and his people, or have been persuaded 
into skepticism by inaccurate, if hot untrue, narrators 
of his story. 

In that picturesque life in the South his reality, 
the butler, was a conspicuously picturesque figure. 
Uncle Julius Caesar it was in the country. Uncle Miles 



When and VVlierc Uncle Isaac Lived. 49 

in the city, and who that knew them can fail to re- 
member them? He had ah of the aristocratic notions 
of his master, shared in the pride of the family, and 
excelled in a gratifying pomposity. He was largely 
impressed with his responsibility for the family's 
honor, and the courtliness of his welcome at the door 
never failed to impress the visitor. His etiquette 
embroidering his character with something over 
much like tinsel to the stranger was a genuine article, 
and a real finish to a real personality — a species of 
Southern dilettanteism in hyperbole. Many were 
the functions and much was the authority that he 
arrogated to himself without contradiction or rebuke, 
and this had continued until both he and others be- 
came reconciled to his assumptions, and half way 
recognized them as his right. And nothing was more 
noticeable in this connection than the constitution 
of himself as the instructor of all other servants in 
matters of decorum, and as the teacher of the children 
in what he denominated " good manners." The 
apprentice to the butler had a severe curriculum and 
4 



50 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the SoittJi. 

a stern task-master. In fact of Uncle Jnlius C?esar, 
or " Daddy," all stood in considerable awe. 

" Howcum you use dat sort ob languidge now, 
Marse Charley? Don't you kno' you oughtn't to 
talk in no sich ob a way? Hit 'tain't perlite, an' 
yo' Par would be mighty mad ef he knowed about 
hit. You ought to be shame ob yo'sef, dat's what you 
ought to be, an' I don't want to hear you talk in no 
sich ob a way agin. Young fokes ob yo' quality 
ought to 'spress demselves in a gin'rous 'zaggeration, 
Sar," was the fashion of frequent speech on his part 
with which the younger generation was entirely 
. familiar. 

" I cuarn't bar to see you stickin' yo' fingers in 
dat dar jar ob sarbes, Miss Kate, I'm so sorry I'm 
mos' estressed dat I cotched you. Lordy, Lordy, dat 
a chile ob yo' Mar should do sich ob a thing ! How 
cum you chilluns cuarn't larn de fashionables' man- 
ners wdiat nat'rully belongs to you? De tarpretations 
ob somethings is pas' my complehensions." And so 
the young lady, not yet in her teens, escaped no more 
easily than her brother. 



When and Where Uncle Isaac Lived. 51 

" In de name ob Common Sense, Marse Jeems, 
why don't you wipe yo' feet on de mat befo' 
de do' befo' you come into de house? Dat flo' was 
scoured dis mornin', an' Becky is spent a whole hour 
a dry-rubbin' ob hit. Jes' look a dar at what you is 
done done to de hall flo'. Hit's farly spilt. Yo' Par 
is a gempman, an' yo' Mar is a high quality lady, and 
yit somehow or nother you don't 'pear to heritages 
nar one ob de manners dat is rejoined to dat breedin'." 
So Marse Jeems was scolded more than once. 

But for any of the family he would have laid down 
his life. Often he was a hero, and whenever 
threatened danger called for heroic action he was 
equal to it. 

The affection of the black Mammy for her w-hite 
" chile " had no limitation, and it was honestly re- 
ciprocated. It manifested itself in a devoted courage 
and in intense signs, but it was altogether likely to 
be somewhat exclusively her particular child's. 

Once when the nursery of the writer and of his 
younger brother was afire, Mammy Grace rushed 
into the smoke, snatched her bov from his bed, and 



52 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 

carried him safely down the stairs, leaving- the 
younger boy in his burning crib. She chd not wish 
him to burn, but the intensity of her anxiety centered 
her efforts on a single idea, and that was the rescue 
of her " chile." 

The little girl as naturally returned her Mammy's 
kiss as she so saluted her mother, and the boy was 
not one whit more ashamed, similarly to express his 
affection or his gratitude for something done. There 
was nothing in her power the Mammy would not do 
for these children, and always with the sincerest token 
of pleasure. But this devotion of the colored people 
to their owners, and its reciprocation as well, was one 
of the remarkable and unique features of this oid 
Southern life. 

When the old Mistress of a South Carolina planta- 
tion died, one of her shawls was given to the old 
Mammy. It was treasured. Subsequently when the 
dispersion of the family, in the attempt to recover 
a livelihood, occurred, this shawl was divided into 
many pieces and distributed by her to the numerous 
old servants, who, in turn subdivided their portions 



When and Where Uncle Isaae Lived. 53 

among their children. Some years afterward, per- 
suaded by the recollections of home, one of the sons 
of this lady returned to the plantation. In his conver- 
sation with a son of one of the former servants, the 
young- colored man told him, that all of the plantation 
colored people who had died since his departure had 
been buried with a piece of " ole Miss' shawl " in their 
coffin, and that he still had his piece — the last of the 
shawl — given him by his mother, which he was keep- 
in for his own burial. There may have been a bit 
of fetich worship in this, but no iconoclast would 
like to disturb it, and it was a splendid mark of a 
lasting love. 

The drastic calls of war took nearly all of the men 
to the front, and the ladies and children were left 
almost entirely in the charge of the colored people 
of the plantation. In many instances there was not 
a gentleman within miles of the place, and yet these 
ladies and children remained there without fear, 
without even a suspicion of uneasiness so great was 
their confidence in their colored friends. Nor were 
they in the slightest peril. They were watched over 



54 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 

and cared for as by anxious affection. The crops 
were planted and harvested, and the plantation was 
looked after by the colored folk, if not always success- 
fully, at least, to the best of their ability. When 
the Proclamation of Emancipation was declared it 
wrought no change in the colored people or in their 
family relationship, or in their strict conception of 
responsibility. Really they did not wish their free- 
dom, and not infrequently the purpose of the kind 
master to emancipate his slaves was, by them, 
strenuously resisted. The identity of a slave with the 
family to which he belonged gave him, in his opinion, 
a higher position socially than that occupied by the 
free negro. He was accustomed, therefore, to look 
down upon what he called a " free nigger," and to 
resent anv proposition to so degrade him. This is 
no argument for slavery, but it was the fact, and it 
made that condition of affection, which fastened 
happiness in the South. In all that time of struggle 
and deprivation and poverty incident upon the war 
there is no record, so far as one Southern man knows, 
of any disloyalty or desertion on their part. It was 



When and Where Uncle Isaac Lived. 55 

wonderful and no greater test of sincere attachment 
could be made. 

Butter became a thing of ancient recollection, 
bacon gravy grew thin and thinner, and then just a 
trifle rancid. Flour was scarce, corn meal expensive, 
salt could be had only of the government, shoes were 
too high priced to buy, and clothes must be made, 
and the material thereof often must be found on the 
plantation. The young and the old master staid at 
the front and in the perpetual battle, where the wages 
were some thirteen dollars a month, and flour twelve 
hundred dollars a barrel, and calico, perhaps, fifty 
dollars a yard. There had to be suffering at the home. 
But at home the colored people continued, helped, 
and suffered with the family. They were always 
faithful. Faithful always, that is enough to say of 
them. It was heroic. 

Others of them in the time of unhappy war showed 
themselves in other ways as devoted and as heroic. 
The negro then was not brave. It was not expected 
that he should be. But when the young master, who 
was permitted to take his servant, went with his 



56 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 

regiment, his colored servant, his loving friend, went 
with him. In the severity of the camp life he lived 
unmurmnringly. He was satisfied to be near his 
master, and no one had greater concern about the 
welfare of the young soldier than his colored body- 
guard. 

" Don't you be a gwine up dar in de front ob dis 
here fight, Marse Ran', dem who is behin' is gwine 
hab plenty ob fightin' befo' dis here battle is ober. 
Jes' wait 'twell yo' time comes. Hit 'tain't no use 
ob gittin' kilt de fus' thing. I'm gwine to be a 
watchin' ob you," was the somewhat sophistical 
advice of Isaac. Yet no one would have been more 
disgraced and distressed had his Marse Ran' showed 
anything of the white feather. 

But something of all this will occur in Uncle 
Isaac's recollections. We know something of the 
time of his life, and where it was lived, and its con- 
ditions. That is enough. Let him, for the rest of this 
book, tell his own stories. He and his times are only 
a remembrance now. A remembrance like the 
fragrance of violets along the pathway of the absent 



When and Where Uncle Isaac Lived. 57 

years. This is the fashion of his reminiscence : and 
if in it he be found a partisan of a pronounced type, 
bear with him even then, because his partisanry was 
an expression of his rare affection, and a sign of a 
rare loyalty. 



UNCLE ISAACS CHRISTMAS 
RECOLLECTIONS. 




MISS KATIE. 



UNCLE ISAACS CHRISTMAS 
RECOLLECTIONS. 



Now dis here Chris'mus ain't like what our Chris'mus 

use to be, 
When white fokes warn't no sarbents, an' de niggers 

warn't set free. 
You set down dar Marse Charley, an' you set right 

dar Miss Kate, 
An' den I'm gwine to tell you 'bout ole Chris'mus 

in dis state. 
You kno' dis is Virginny, old Virginny is her name, 
An' whar dey use to hab sich good things 'twas a sin 

an' shame. 
Dis state warn't like dem odder states up Norf or way 

down Souf, 
We neber had much sno' an' ice. an' hardly eber 

drouf. 

[63] 



64 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 

De rain was plenty for de crap, an' ice enuff would 

come 
To las' us through de Summer in our ole Virginny 

home. 
Den corn an' wheat an' hogs an' sheep was plenty 

all de year, 
An' turkeys gobbled in a way you always like to hear. 
Dar ain't no use a talkin' for hit always was a fac' 
Dat eb'rybody use to lub a ole Virginny snac'. 
Dat hoe-cake an' dat 'lasses an' dat ole time butter- 
milk 
De chilluns eat upon de lawn, dat lawn as fine as 

silk- 
Hit raly was de bestis' time dis country eber see. 
'Twas good enuff for any fokes, an' twict too good 

for me. 
I ain't gwine tell you 'bout de dinners dat we sarbed 

each day, 
Case you cuarn't 'preciate all de things ob dat ole 

fashion way. 
But 'twas de grandes' libbin' dat dis worl' did eber 

see. 



Uncle Isaac's Christmas Recollections. 65 

How cum dem Yankees come down here an' set de 

niggers free? 
De niggers dat was happy from de time dat dey was 

born, 
A cradlin' in de wheatfiel' an' a shuckin' ob de corn, 
Is beggin' an' a steahn' for to git dem sump'n to 

eat — 
Deir bacon is all rancid, an' de 'lasses hit ain't sweet. 
I sho' misstan' dat bus'ness from de las' unto de 

fus', 
A comin' to Virginny an' a both'rin' arter us. 
Who axed dem for to come down here dat's what I 

want to kno'. 
Dey's done upsot de good ole life an' ruined hit for 

sho'. 
But I ain't tole you 'bout de Chris'mus what we had 

dem days, 
When we was doin' eb'rything in dem ole fashion 

ways. 
'Twas Chris'mus sho', ]\Iarse Charley, an' 'twas 

Chris'mus sho', Miss Kate. 

5 



6(i Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 

Our hogs mos' come to killin' an' de fish didn't want 

no bait. 
De Ian' was full ob music, an' de banjo couldn't stop, 
An' eb'ry face was smihn' hke a bright tobacker crop. 
December twenty-fif is always Chris'mus day you 

kno', 
But (ley begins deir preparations sev'rul weeks befo'. 
Dere was mo' chop an' choppin' ob raw meat an' 

mutten suet, 
An' spice an' raisins jes' as good, an' didn't we fokes 

all knew^ it ! 
Anodder thing — 'twas roun' an' green — dey use' to 

cut an' slice, 
What for you call dat thing? Any'ow hits tas'e was 

mighty nice. 
Cit — Cit — , Yes, sho's you born Miss Kate, I had 

mos' done forgit, 
Lor' me, for sartin ]\'Ia'm, you 'members right. Citrun, 

dat's hit ! 
Den sich a bakin' an' a l:)akin' ol:) dem cakes an' 

]Mes, 



Uncle Isaac's Christinas Recollections. 67 

Hit make yo' moiif a leetle branch dat run out ob vo' 

eyes 
Dey pickled all de oyshters dat a one boss team could 

tote, 
An' out'n de pen dey picked an' took de bery fattes' 

shote. 
Dey killed de souf-down mutton, an' dat ole time 

fatted calf, 
Dat would a made a prodigal forgit hesef" an' laf. 
Dar was de bigges' turkey an' hit mout be too a 

goose — 
Hit looked jes' like de 'bundance ob de erf was turned 

a loose. 
Dey gathered in de taters, an' a possum, hit warn't 

scace, 
An' all poke sassage dat was mos' elicious to de tas'e. 
An' sarbes an' jelly, puddin' too, an' all dat sorter 

stuff. 
Hit seemed jes' like dem good ole fokes, dem days, 

couldn't hab enuff. 
Ole Whiskey was a ribber, an' ole Brandy was a 

branch, 



68 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the SoiitJi. 

Dat flowed to de plantation in a stream you could'nt 

stanch. 
Ole Marster made hit into punch an' what we called 

Aig Nog — 
Ef you had mixed hit wid de vict'ls you would a made 

a bog. 
An' apple toddy, which I kno' is mighty good to 

drink, 
An' gits yo' hade to thinkin' 'twell hit don't kno' 

what to think. 
Den out de cellar Mad de cobweb an' de dus' dey 

brung 
De wine from ole Madeery, an' dat odder — Now I'm 

hung 
Ef I remimbers what's hits name, 'twas Shurry, I 

belieb, 
Which sifted through yo' stomick like fine flour 

through a sieb, 
An' riz, an' riz untwell hit struck de center ob yo' 

brain, 
An' splendid made one single night, but nex' day dar 

was pain. 



Uncle Isaac's Christmas Recollections. 69 

Oh me, dem blessed juleps wid de mixeture ob grass, 
I knowed dey was among de things dat was too good 

to las' ! 
I hear de carridge comin' down de poplar abenue— 
Dem bosses is Marse Peytonses, his grey mars Suk 

an' Sue; 
I kno' deir trot. Jes' hear dem now a comin' in dis 

way, 
Jes' like dey warn't no boss but fokes an' knowed 

'twas Chris'mus Day. 
An' yonder come anodder, dat's yo' modder an' yo' 

Par, 
He was a Cornfed sojer an' got wounded in de war. 
I bet you in dat carridge is Miss Julia an' Miss Ann, 
An' dat young brodder dat is dade, my po' young 

Marster Ran'. 
A heap mo' fokes is comin'. Cuarn't you hear de 

bosses trot? 
A-booker an' a-booker, dat's anodder hoss-back lot : 
Marse Joe, yo' cousin Simon, an' Marse Willyum 

from de Vale — 



70 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in flic South. 

Dar ain't no een to all de fokes dat figgers in dis 

tale. 
Yo' Gran'pa an' yo' Gran'ma, an' yo' sickly Uncle 

Bill 
Is standin' on de big front poach a beck'nin' up de 

hill. 
Den sich a fussin' an' a kissin' yon ain't nel5^r seen. 
An' eb'ry kiss dat dem fokes gib yon sho' a kiss dey 

mean. 
An' eb'ry chile ob dat big fambly, all ob deni was dar, 
De boys drest up in Sunday close, de girls wid curly 

har. 
Jerusalum, it was a sight dat made you jump an' 

cheer ! 
No Ma'm, Miss Kate, you couldn't a stood hit mo' 

den onct a year. 
Den in de house whar was de Chris'mus tree dey all 

would go — 
Hit sot inside de parlor near de middle ob de flo'. 
'Twas kivered wid some shiny stuff, an' on mos' all 

de limbs 
Was red an' yaller candles sot in lubly golden rims. 



Uncle Isaac's Christmas Recollections. 71 

An' on dat tree was sump'thin' sho' for eb'ry chile an' 

man. 
De ole fokes, an' de chilluns, an' for eb'ry maid an' 

ban'. 
No, I cuarn't tell you what dey got, for all dem girls 

an' boys 
In heap les' time den I can tell was plum armful ob 

toys. 
De grown fokes too was smilin' an' dey showed dat 

dey was glad, 
For eb'rything dey fotched dem down was what dey 

wished dey had. 
Unk' Jule would git a Kercheefer, an' Andrew'd git 

a hat, 
Ole Nancy'd git a apron, an' dar was sump'n too for 

Nat, 
Unk' Ca^sar'd hab a pa'r ob boots, an' Sis would git 

a doller. 
An' dem black fokes would git so glad dey couldn't 

hep' but holler. 
A-clang, a-clang, a-clanger, now dey'd ring de dinner 

bell. 



72 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 

But, Naw Sar, 'bout dat dinner I'm a not a gwine to 

tell. 
'Twould make you bofe too awful hongry — Dar I 

yearn you laf ! 
I clar I couldn't escriber hit, I couldn't escribe one 

haf. 
A lis' ob all dey eat dat day an' all de wine dey drank 
Would take a mem'ry bigger'n mine. I clar 'twould 

take a tank 
To hole dat wine an' cordjuls, Sar, an' as for what dey 

eat, 
'Twould put ten men a hystin' hit into a mortal sweat. 
Why, Lord-a marcy, Marster sho', you fokes ob now- 

a-days 
Cuarn't pos'bul understan' how in de oler timer 

ways 
We libbed, an' eat, an' drinked, an' lubbed, an' made 

dis life a song, 
When eb'rything was 'zactly right, an' nufifin', Sar, 

'peared wrong. 
An' ef I tole you 'bout dat dinner, an' I darred to 

try, 



Uncle Isaac's Cliristnias Recollections. 73 

Yon wouldn't belieb hit 'twas a fac', but think hit 

'twas a He. 
" Git partners," now de cry would come, for " Chris'- 

mus eb'nin's dance." 
An' you ought'r seen dem chilluns how dey den 

would ra'r an' prance. 
De ole fokes go mo' slo' you kno', fus' dis way an' 

den dat, 
A noddin' to de music an' a keepin' up a chat. 
Dar warn't no pianners an' horns dat dance for us 

to play, 
We neber had dat sort er tune for us on Chris'mus 

Day, 
But music from de banjo an' a jinin' to de fiddle — 
" Dar, take yo' place, Chassay, Forw'd Fo', Cross 

ober through de middle ! " 
Ole John would sing, " O dearest May," Hum, Hum, 

" Wid eyes so bright." 
" Now balunce all, Salute yo' partners," Pang Pung, 

" Ladies right ! " 
How^ dat ole banjo'd plunk an' pling, an' how dat 

fiddle'd sing. 



74 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 

Hit made deir souls come in deir feet an' cut de 

pidgeon wing. 
But night would come an' darkness settle on de happy 

sky, 
When on de poach dey'd go agin an' say de sweet 

" Good-bye." 
An' some would be a laffin' an' den some would shed 

a tear. 
For who could tell what was gwine come befo' 

anodder year. 
An' dat was all our Chris'mus 'ceptin' what I cuarn't 

rebeal, 
For fokes may tell all what dey do but cuarn't tell 

what dey feel. 
We ain't gwine hab no mo' sich like, dat Chris'mus 

kin not be, 
Case white fokes' sot to wurkin', an' de niggers is 

sot free. 
Good-bye, Miss Kate, Marse Charley, you had bes' 

keep out'n de Sun. 
Rebeccy is dat hoe-cake an' dat bacon almos' done? 



WHEN MARSE RAN' GOT KILT. 




CUARED HIM HU.ME, MAKSIC CHAKLIA-." 



WHEN MARSE RAN' GOT KILT. 



Jes" set down dar, Marse Charley, on dat ole time bar 

cloth char, 
Hit's mighty saf an' easy, 'twas a present from yo' 

Mar. 
Bles' heaben for her goodness, caze she was mos' 

kine to me — 
Her face was like a angel, an' her eyes was like de 

sea. 
So bine an' deep. You could not fine de bottom ob 

dem eyes, 
Dey look like some 'efiection ob de Savior from de 

skies. 
Her words was like dat manna dat de anshunt 

Isrulites 
Foun' on de mornin' pastur, what de angels spread o' 



nights. 



[79] 



8o Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 

O, she was good to all ob ns, white fokes an' niggers 

too, 
An' nar a sole libbed on dis place dat didn't lub Miss 

Sue. 
" Ole Miss" we called her in dem days. We lubbed 

to say " Ole Miss," 
Hit was a sign ob 'fection, jes' de same thing as a 

kiss. 
I members well dat lone, sad day when she took sick 

an' died, 
I went down in de lowgroun' pines an' cried, an' cried, 

an' cried. 
De sweetes' life had lef dis Ian', de sweetes' voice was 

still; 
De ole plantation changed dat day, an' neber, neber 

will 
Be like hit ust er be. Set down Marse Charley on de 

char. 
I hope you is a righteous chile ob yo' sweet, righteous 

Mar. 
You want me to tell you ob de time when young 

Marse Ran' got kilt? 



When Marse Ran' Got Kilt. 8i 

'Twas awful hard to bar Sar. but "twas wliat de g-ood 

Lord wilt. 
Hit 'tis a sadsome story, but Fll tell you ef I can — 
My memory is gwine fas', but I cuarn't forgit Marse 

Ran', 
Nor how he libbed, an' lubbed, an' lafifed, an' rid, an' 

fit, an' died; 
Now ho\\ I prayed so long dat day, an' when I quit 

I cried. 
Hit 'twas a tur'ble battle, but we fit hit as we mout, 
I b'lieb hit was de hardes" fight dat in de war we 

font. 
But ef I'm gwine to tell you den I spec' Fde bes' 

begin 
Wid when we yeard about de war fo' he an' I went 

in. 
In ole Amelia, we was here, when news dar comes 

to us 
About de war arisin', an' I think 'twas May de fus' 
In eighteen hundud sixty one an' Nannie Domino. 
Dat was de year de lowgroun's had de dreadful 

oberflo'. 
6 



82 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in flic South. 

De corn crap hit 'twas ruint, an' de Appomattox 

riz 
Untwell hit cotched de cow pen an' drowndid our bes' 

cow, Liz. 
De taters vvarn't no good dat year, an' wheat was 

mighty bad — 
Hit seemed we had de wustes' kick dat we had eber 

had. 
I don't kno' much 'bout who got mad. or what dey 

got mad for, 
But bofe sides got to sassin', an' dat sassin' fetched 

de wor. 
I'se yeard sence den dat 'ligion is mos' gin'rally de 

cause 
Ob all dis rumpass an' a killin' what we call de wors, 
But in dis case 'twas diffrunt an' de niggers made de 

muss 
Dat brung a tribulation an' a fightin' on to us. 
De Yankees sade dey's suf'frin', an' we'll sot de 

niggers free. 
De Cornfed sade, you shet up. an' jes' let our niggers 

be. 



iriicii Marsc Ran' Got Kilt. 83 

De niggers warn't complainin' an' dey lubbed de 

cabin life, 
In dat ole time ob comfort for de man an' chile an 

wife. 
De vict'als was abundant, an' onr close was spic an' 

span, 
An' den we libbed jes' like we would in dis bles' 

Suddern Lan'. 
Wid watermillions ripe an' sweet down on de ice- 
house flo', 
An' possums in de simmon trees, what else did we 

want mo'? 
De niggers warn't complainin', an' dey neber sade a 

word 
About a bein' unhappy Sar, as eber I is yeard. 
De gempman was de marster, but de gempman was 

our frien'. 
An' we didn't want dat frien'ship to bust up Sar, an' 

to en'. 
But startin' to Virginny, whar we sade dey should not 

come 
To gib us any trouble in our ole Virginny home, 



84 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 

We got to fight de battles ob de Souf Cornfidrit wars, 
An' dat's 'bout all I knows Sar, in de matter ob hits 

cause. 
But you ought'r seen our fokes den when dey foun' 

de news was true 
Dat 'vasion was a comin' Sar. De air was black an' 

blue. 
I neber yeard sich langwidge from ole marster fo' 

dat day; 
He cuarried on in what seemed like a mos' unchristian 

way. 

I b'lieb 'cept for dat 'ligion dat hilt holt on mos' on 

us 
He would a broke completely an' los' hesef an' cuss. 
Ezactly like de men de ladies too got mad you kno', 
An' sade so much a quar'lin' dat you almos' thought 

dey swo'. 
De chilluns eben dey got mad an' made deir leetle 

fuss — 
You scace could fine a single sole dat wasn't fit to 

cuss. 



Jl'lirii Marsc Ran' Got Kilt. 85 

De gempmen jined de comp'nies, an' mos' eb'ry single 

man 
In ole Amelia county an' her sister Powhatan 
Was jinin' an' a gwine, I clar, untwell when dey was 

done, 
Ob all de men in dese here parts dey hardly lef a one 
To take care ob de place, or ten' a crap, or blow^ a 

horn. 
Dey was mo' scacer den a measly nubbin' in our corn. 
Yo' Pa he jined de Richmon' Blues, an' den my young 

Marse Ran', 
He jined de hoss-back troop dey raised across in 

Powhatan. 
Deir captin was Marse Charley Ole — a good one to 

be sho'. 
An' deir leftenant was, you kno'. Mis' Hobson" young 

son Joe. 
De sargent was Marse Harty, Mister \\^illyum Hair'- 

son's son. 
An' Marse Joe Gibbs, our mess's cook, he was 

anodder one. 



86 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the Soiifh. 

Den dar was young- Marse Lewis Harvie, an' Marse 

Jimmie Werf — 
As fine a lot ob cabilmen as rid upon dis erf. 
In dis here worl' no braver men no wars ain't neber 

see, 
An' all de men ob dat ole troop was brave as dey 

could be ! 
Dey lubbed to git to fightin' as mos' fokes do lub to 

eat, 
An' dey didn't hab no notion 'bout a time for a re- 
treat. 
When dat ole troop got started dey was gwine some- 

whar dat day, 
An' 't\\ai"n't no use for Yankees to git crosswise in de 

way. 
For dey was gwine I tell you, gwine a bubblin, to dat 

spot 
Like gravy in a skillit dat ole Nat had made red hot. 
Dar warn't no way to bender dat ole resky Pow'tan 

troop; 
You ought'r seen 'em chargin', an' you ought'r yeard 

'em whoop. 



iriicii Morse Ran' Got Kilt. 87 

'Twas like a great big pac' ob houn's a openin' wid 

deir cry 
Behin' a fox a rimnin', but who knowed he had to 

die. 
A^Iarse Ran' he rid de sorrel colt, an' I, I rid ole Nade, 
An' way we v/ent one day to whar de war would be 

dey sade. 
But fus' we marched to Richmon' town, an' dat was 

only fun, 
Becaze, you kno', de time for fightin' hadn't as yit 

begun. 
But hit was comin' slo'ly, an' dat sojer play didn't 

las' 
For mo'n a week or month befo' de mis'ry come to 

pas'. 
In Richmon' hit was nelegent. De vict'als was de 

bes', 
An' not a thing had we to do but jes' to eat an' res', 
Dey mounted guard a mornin', an' had eb'nin' dress 

perade. 
All dressed up in deir finery an' lots ob golden 

braid. 



88 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in flic Sotitli- 

De ladies come mos' all de time to see de sojer boys, 
An' life in camp was jes' a great big passel full ob 

joys. 
So dey was geth'rin an' geth'rin' imtwell dar come a 

day 
When buglers blowed de bugles an' we had to march 

away. 
De ban's de}^ sot to playin', an' de drums begun to 

beat, 
De cannons rumbled loudly 'long on wide, rock- 
paved Broad street, 
De banners was a flyin', an' de sojers look so glad, 
Dat we begun to feel dat war was what we wished we 

had. 
De sight we made was splendid, an' de bosses mos' 

kep' step, 
An' ladies waved deir kerchiefs, an' smiled, an' laffed, 

an' wep'. 
An' some ^^•as gwine to glory, Sar, an' some was 

gwine to die. 
An' soon dem praisin', smilin' ladies dar ^^•as gwine 

to cry. 



JJlicii Morse Ran' Got Kilt. 89 

Our gin'ral was de gin'ral dat mos' eb'rybody love. 
He was so han'some dat he moiit a drapped down 

from above, 
A angel gone to sojerin' upon dis sorry worl', 
But dat he lubbed to be a singin'. chirpy as a girl. 
He'd sing away a mornin". an' he'd sing de same at 

night, 
Nare shadder crossed his countenance, dat face was 

always bright. 
You'se yeard ob him Marse Charley, Gin'ral Stuart 

was de man, 
De fines' cal'vry gin'ral dat we had in all de lan\ 
I hear him now a singin' 'bout de ole boss dat was 

gray, 
A comin' out a wildernes" an' warn't gwine long to 

stay. 
I almos' see dem golden spurs he wore upon his 

boots. 
An' graceful wabin' ob his ban' tow'ds ole Sweeney 

Toots, 
His dral), saft hat an' feadder cotched up wid a star 

ob cfole — 



90 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 

Ole Marster when He made dat gin'ral sho'ly broke 

de mole. 
But I cuarn't tell you all about dem fo' long years ob 

fight, 
'Twould take too long, Marse Charley, an' hit 'tain't 

fur now fo' night. 
He kep' us stiddy fightin', an' he rarly let us res', 
Untwell we all got ragged an' our food warn't none 

de bes'. 
Our bacon got so rancid an' de brade dat full ob 

worms 
Hit sets my hade a shiverin' an' gibs me yit de 

squirms 
In my tuff stomick when I thinks ob what dem days 

we eat. 
Dat hard tac' would a crawled right off ef eber hit got 

wet. 
How in dis worl' dey made so hard dat measly ole 

hard tac' 
T kin not compehen'. Hit would not saften, bust. 

nor crac'. 



IJlicn Marsc Ran' Got Kilt. 91 

Yas Sar. hit was as hard, 1 clar, as dat dar iron 

plow — 
To sabe my Hfe, Marse Charley, I b'lieb I couldn't 

eat hit now. 
We got dat low an' on'ry dat we retched de lowes' 

pitch, 
When eb'ry gempman ob us all had gone an' got 

de itch. 
An' do' we washed all dat we could, an' tried to keep 

us clean 
Dem varmin would come on us dat's de meanes' ob 

de mean. 
I ought'n to tell you ob dese things dey is so mighty 

low, 
But dey was in de war Sar, an' I'se boun' to talk jes' 

so. 
But nary word ob grumblin' did he hear dem brave 

boys say, 
Dey fit an' bled, dey bur'd deir dade, an' rid wid him 

away 
To fight agin. Dem men was made ob ole time 

Suddern stufif. 



92 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in tJic South. 

Which nel^er knowed an' neber tole 'bout when dey 

had ennff. 
But arter while Marse Ran' he riz to be a captin an' 
Dey took him out ob his own troop dat come from 

Powhatan, 
An' him an' me dey sont to sarve on Gin'ral Pickett's 

staff, 
An' do' I was so proud I laffed hit 'twarn't no time to 

laft'. 
Dat 'motion kilt my marster, for ef in de troop he'd 

staid, 
He wouldn't a got in dat big fight an' on de fiel' lay 

dade. 
He went to Gin'ral Pickett for de wuss fight ob de 

war; 
'Twas mighty sad, 'twas tur'bul, Sar. What did he go 

dar for? 
But dar he went, an' dar he fit, an' dar a brave man 

died, 
An' dar a nigger's heart got broke, an' dar ole Isaac 

cried, 



iJ'hcii Marsc Ran' Got Kilt. 93 

Dey drawee! clem up one mornin', 'twas de third day 

ob July, 
In line ob battle dat was formed ob men dat had to 

die. 
I clum a fence an' watched dem form beneaf de slopin' 

hill, 
Whar in de brilin' Sun dey stood for seb'rul hours 

untwill 
I got so narvous dat I ses, dar's sumpthin' sho'ly 

wrong, 
Dey stays down dar too quietly an' too onnat'rul 

long. 
Yes Sar, I got so jerky dat 'twas like I had a chill, 
A watchin' dem brave sojers at de bottom ob de hill. 
Den jes' 'bout when 'twas dinner time, de Sun sade 

hit was one 
O'clock, a settin' on de fence I yeard a single gun. 
An' den good Lord-a-marcy ! dar come biistin' out 

de noise 
Ob seb'rul hund'ud cannons dar a shootin" at dem 

bovs. 



94 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 

Hit soun' like jedgment day had come an' eb'ry one 

ob us 
Was summoned up to jedgment in dat big, tre- 

menjous fuss. 
Hit skeered me into sich a trimble dat I los' my 

sense, 
An" jumped so high up from de rail I fell off ob de 

fence. 
De yearth hit shook an' shivered, an' de smoke be- 

thicked de ar' 
A siffocatin' 'twell I thunk we all would die right 

thar. 
For I couldn't b'lieb 'twas people dat was makin' sich 

a stir 
Ob ilemints an' turmile, but de Lord had made hit 

'cur. 
Den suddently de guns dey heshed an' eb'rything was 

still, 
An' muskits 'gin to rattle at de bottom ob de hill. 
I knowed dat sumpthin' awful was a gwine to happen 

den. 



PVIien Morse Ran' Got Kilt. 95 

But pray I couldn't to sabe my life, I jes' could say 

"Amen." 
I was so skeered my sense war gone, my tongue 

couldn't make no soun', 
Jes' mumblin' an' a trimblin' dar I laid upon de 

groun'. 
But in dat word, young Marster, dar was all a man 

could pray, 
A skeered sole say'n in breffless prar all dat hit had to 

say. 
An' den I yeard de order, " Forw'd," an' all along de 

line 
I seed de motion ob de men, an' knowed whar dey 

was gwine. 
Right up dat hill dey pinted to whar all dem guns was 

sot, 
W'id iortx thousan' Yankees waitin' for dem in dat 

spot. 
Dey moved as stiddy an' as true as ef 'twas dress 

perade, 
Deir shoulders techin' shoulders, an' de gin'rul at 

deir hade. 



96 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 

But praise don't 'mount to nuffin' an' no mo' 1 cnars 

to say, 
'Cept dat straight line ob battle was deposed ob " men 

in grey." 
Dat's all you hab to say Sar. for de res' is known to 

. all. 
Dey moved like corn a wabin' an' deir line was like 

a wall. 
An' so dey went haf up de hill, when forw'd I seed 

'em sarge, 
An' kno'ed de gin'ral had gib order for de men to 

charge. 
Dar bruk loose on de hillside den de loudes' " rebel 

yell," 
An' I mos' hear de gin'ral say, " Now boys jes' gib 

'em hell " — 
De saints forgib me for dat word, I had done sho' 

forgit 
Dat I w^as now a Christian man, an' not a rebel yit. 
Away dey went right up de hill into d.at place ob 

defif, 
An' I eot so ixcited dat I actshul hilt mv breff. 



lllicn Marse Ran' Got Kilt. 97 

A cheerin' an' a yellin' an' a riishin' tow'd de top, 
Dat ole Division hurried in a way no fokes could 

stop. 
An' den de Yankee cannons turned a loose deir iron 

storm, 
An' mowed dem down in ranks an' files, but quick 

agin dey'd form. 
Dey needn't a tried to stop 'em for dey was de '' men 

ob grey," 
Who'de ruther fight den eat, I b'lieb, on any sort er 

day. 
Dey flung deir nale kaigs an' canbusters murd'rin' 

down de slope 
Untwell for not a single man I had de slightes' hope. 
De ar was full ob bustin' shells, de grape was whistlin' 

loud. 
An' mos' a million bullits was a hitin' in dat crowd. 
Hit w-as like hell had been turned loose — Dar is dat 

W'ord agin, 
But I don't mean no harm an' so hit cuarn't be much 

er sin. 

7 



98 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in flic Soiifli. 

An' 'twas like hell all turned a loose in answer to a 

cuss, 
I clar to heab'n, Marse Charley, nnffin' else conld hab 

been wuss. 
Dev cheered an' fell, dey fell an' cheered, an' o' de 

dade dey run, 
An' paid nare bit ob 'tention to dem shot or hill or 

gun. 
I seed de off' cers fallin', but Marse Ran' I seed kep' 

on, 
'Twill 'twixt de smokes I looked agin' an' Lordy, he 

was gone. 
Mv heart sunk in my stomick, an' my breff come 

quick an' fas', 
Den in a minnit mo' I yelled an' jumped up ofT de 

grass. 
I'de plum forgit de bullits an' de canbusters an' 

shell, 
De noise an' fight, de skeer an' me, an' eb'rything as 

well. 
But up de hill I runned to whar I thunk I seed him 

fall. 



Ulicii Marsc Ran' Got Kilt. 99 

An' neber cuared a single bit for anything at all. 
A bnllit hit me in cle arm, but not one word I sade, 
For I was gwine to git Marse Ran' onles' dey shot 

me dade. 
An' thar he was lyin' still right flat npon his face, 
His blood a red'nin' eb'rything about dat sacred 

place. 
I turned him gintly ober, but so soon's I cotched his 

eye 
I knowed his time was sartin come an' he was boun' 

to die. 
.'" O Lord," I hollored, " O ]\Iarse Ran', please look 

at me onct mo' ! " 
An' his dear eyes looked in my eyes He 

whispered, but so low 
Dat I, to sabe me, couldn't make out what he was 

try'n' to speak, 
An' neber think he'd talk agin he 'peared so mights- 
weak. 
But den I seed him try agin, an' dis time plain T 

\'eard , 



loo Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in tJie South. 

Do' low he spoke, in whisper low. an' slo'ly word by 

word. 
'* Isaac — Good-bye — Isaac — tell — Mar — I feel 

Isaac — Good-bye, 
Tell — Isaac all — at home — dat I was — -not afeered — 

to die; 
Tell — tell dem I — died for dem, an' — an' for — my 

country's good ! " 
I tole him, an' I scace could speak, dat I mos' sho'ly 

would. 
An' den he sade, '' for honor, tell — tell — , Isaac, 

hole my hade." 
An' den de blood bulged out his bres', an' den Marse 

Ran' was dade. 
" Somebody's darlin' " lay dat day upon de grey hill- 
side. 
" Somebody's darlin' " fit dat day, an fit untwell he 

died, 
" Somebody's darlin' " lef dat day a pain for all ob 

us, 
An' many a heart was hurt dat day, an' one sweet 

heart did bus'. 



When Marse Ran' Got Kilt. loi 

Please 'scuse my cryin' Marster, I cuarn't hep' de 

wish to cry, 
I rickolix so weH clat day I watched my darHn' die. 
I picked him up an' toted him a down dat bloody 

hill, 
An' in my arms he lay so white an' beautiful an' still. 
His smile was like a angel's, an' I knowed his fight 

was won — 
A sojer's sole done furloughed 'caze his sojer work 

was done. 
I cuarred him home, Marse Charley, an' right yonder 

now he sleeps, 
Beneaf de grass an' vi'lets whar dat weepin' wilier 

weeps. 
To me his grave is holy, an' I'se kep' hit all dese 

years 
Sweet wid de grass an' flowers, an' mos' watered hit 

wid tears. 
But ob de fight I seed no mo', dey tell me dat de 

boys 
To Cimitiry Ridge went up through all dat defi' an' 

noise. 



I02 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in tJic South. 

I neber bocklered 'bout my arm, aldo" hit hurt, 

untwell 
I got him safely home agin, an' den hit soon got well. 
Hit's techy now for rheumatiz, an' brmgs me back 

de day 
In sad remimbrance when Marse Ran' in battle passed 

away. 
I'se been here eber sence, Sar, eber sence dat time he 

died, 
An' 'twell I jine Marse Randuff thar, 'tis here I want 

to bide. 
An' when my time is come, as 'twill, an' I've took 

sick an' died, 
Marse Charley put me 'neaf de tree by my young 

Marster's side. 
You mus' be gwine? Good eb'nin' Sar, I hopes you'll 

come agin, 
Hit does me good to tell you 'bout de times our 

fokes libbed in. 
Please 'sense my tears. Good-bye, Good-bye ! Gord's 

doin's is all right. 
Nummine Rebeccy, thanky, I ain't hongry none to- 
night ! 



DE SUNDAYS AN' DE 'LIGION DAT IS 
GONE. 




"BUT JES' SET Dt)\VN AXIJ TALK.' 



DE SUNDAYS AN' DE 'LIGION DAT IS 
GONE. 



Good Mornin' Sar, Good Mornin' M'am ! I'm raly 

glad you come, 
An' tell me 'bout all ob yo' fokes, how is dey all at 

home ? 
Marse Charley, how is you to-day, I hope you'se well 

Miss Kate. 
I'm mighty glad to see you caze hit's lonesome here 

ob late. 
Rebeccy went a week ago down to Marse Jeemses 

place, 
An' ob a pa'r ob frien'ly eyes I kinder wants a tas'e. 
She's gwine come home to-morrer, an' I reck'n 'twill 

be sometime 
Befo' she gits plum rested from dat backward uphill 

clime. 

[107] 



io8 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 

She's mos' too ole an' ailin' to be trampin' to de 

Oaks, 
An' dat hig hill 'twixt here an' dar is hefty for ole 

fokes. 
Somehow or nother we cuarn't larn what nuis' be 

plain to you, 
Dat we ole fokes cuarn't pos'bul do what onct we 

ust er do. 
Wid grey har'd age de knee jints gits too stifT so far 

to walk; 
An' I ain't fit'n for nuffin now but to set down an' 

talk. 
Onct 'pon a time I ust er plow 'long any sort er man. 
An' better den young Isaac den yo' Par didn't hab 

nare han'. 
In dat ole wheatfiel' yonder I is made de cradle sing, 
An' in dem ole corn shuckin' days I neber do a 

thing 
But jes' walk way wid all de fokes. I cuarn't hep' 

now but laff 
When I remimber how de res' couldn't do much mo' 

den ha'f 



De Sundays aii Dc 'Ligion Dat is Gone. 109 

I did, no matter how dey wurked. I spec' hit made 

me proud. 
But you cuarn't hep' dat pride M'am, when you con- 
stant leads de crowd. 
Hit 'tis dat ilemint ob sin dat in us fines a place, 
An' lets us look a smilin' at de lef ones in de race, 
A kinder nat'rul selfishnes' dat in us all is sot, 
An' don't care 'bout no odders, 'cept to git what dey 

is got. 
But now I cuarn't wurk hard M'am, an' de res' ob 

time down here 
I'm satisfied to plow behin' dat ole red, broke horn 

steer. 
We bofe goes slo' an' poky, but we makes a leetle 

crap, 
Enuff for one po' 'oman an' for one ole worn out 

chap. 
She's gwine come home to-morrer Sar, an' jes'as sho' 

as sin 
Hits gwine to be a good long time befo' she goes 

as^in. 



no lliclc Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 

She'll be so tired an' groanin' when she sets down in 

dat char 
Hit's gwine take heap er suasion for to start her back 

down thar. 
I knows her well, yonng Mistis, an' she ain't so nimble 

now 
As when she cleaned np in de house while I was bin' 

de plow. 
She ain't gwine back torectly, an' de Spring will hab 

set in 
Befo' she gits de notion, an' ole Isaac's lef agin. 
Tobacker, Sar! I'm much obleedged, hit's what I 

wished I had. 
Mine's done got mighty funky, an' hit's tas'e is almos' 

bad. 
How cum dey puts dese leetle brass things all along 

de plugs? 
To tell you ef 'twas made ob long leaf or 'twas made 

ob lugs? 
De bran' you say? An' dat's de name? An' dis is 

" Grabelv Pres'?" 



Dc Sundays an' Dc 'Ligion Dat is Gone. iii 

In clem good days dat now is gone O'noco was de 

bes'. 
I'm gwine pull off dis bran right now, case only tother 

day 
\\nien young Marse Jimmie Bannister come ridin' 

'long dis way, 
He gimme one nice bit ob piece like dis fixed up wid 

brass, 
An' bit'n a chor I bruk a touf, de nex' one to my las'. 
Hit was a shame to los' dat touf, Yes M'am, an' now I 

choose 
To teck no resks, for sho's you born, I'se got no mo' 

to lose. 
You wants me tell you sumpthin' mo' about de life 

dat's gone, 
I knows hit all Marse Charley from long fo' you bofe 

was born. 
You lubs to hear me tell about de good days dat is 

pas'? 
Dey was good too Miss Katie, an' too good for dem 

to las'. 



II 



2 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 



An' ef you lubs to hear my tales, I lubs to tell dem 

too, 
An' nar a sole in all de worl' I'd ruther tell den you. 
I'se tole you 'bout our Chris'mus time an' when dey 

kilt Marse Ran', 
After he lef dat horseback troop he jined in Powha- 
tan. 
What does you want me talk 'bout now? I members 

eb'rything 
From ^^■ay de ole houn's ust er bark to how de mock 

bird sing. 
Deres nuffin ob dat ole time life ain't cotched hard 

in dis brain, 
An' when I fotch it back I gits a pledjur outen pain. 
For howsomeber wdien I thinks about dem good ole 

days 
My feelin's gits a crosswise an' dey tech me in two 

ways. 
'Tis sad to kno' dat dey is gone an' cuarn't come back 

no mo'. 
But den agin hit makes me glad to call dem back so 

sho'. 



Dc Sundays an' De 'Ligion Dat is Gone. 113 

An' when I talks about clem Sar, I libs in dem agin, 
Jes" like I'd been an' gone away, come home, an' 

walked right in. 
'Tis but a sweet word song, M'am, sot unto a sadsome 

tune, 
A kinder late October day sont back somewhar in 

June. 
I b'lieb I'll tell you 'bout de 'ligion dat we had dem 

days, 
When we was doin' eb'rything in dem ole fashion 

ways, 
An' how we went to our ole Chu'ch whar onct we 

singed an' prayed. 
An' 'tracted meetin' at de Chu'ch when all day long 

we stade. 
We was Episcumpalyons, 'mong mos' high tone 

fokes w'as we, 
An' had de fines' sarvice dar as eber dar could be. 
Dar was some odder kind er 'ligions scattered roun' 

about, 
But dey didn't warship much like us, an' mos'ly lub 

to shout. 



114 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in tJic South. 

We neber 'lowed no shoiitin', an' de fokes jes' say 

" Amen " 
Wheneber in de prars dar come what seemed a leetle 

en'. 
Sometimes we jawed back standin' what de good ole 

Prar Book sade, 
A speakin' to de preacher like de body to de hade. 
We neber had no jumblin' caze we all had larnt to 

tell 
What our ole preacher wanted M'am, an' up we riz 

an' fell. 
A norgan hysted up de tune an' how de time was 

wrote, 
So eb'rybody in de choir could strike de samest 

note. 
An' sich a singin' we did hab, I clar, hit was enerf 
To make you b'lieb de angels had come dowai from 

heab'n to erf 
A singin' ob de music dey was ust to in de skies, 
An' 'twas dat sweet hit made you cry onles' you shet 

yo' eyes. 



Dc Sundays aii De 'Ligion Dat is Gone. 115 

De balnnce ob de Chii'ches was as Christian fokes, 

'tis true, 
But (ley didn't like to warship much like we all ust er 

do. 
Dey neber had no Book ob Prar an didn't stan' to 

sing. 
An' seemed to hab a notion for a change in eb'ry- 

thing. 
But den dey was good people an' dey prayed bofe 

loud an" long, 
Do' dey didn't hab no norgan for to hyst deir 'ligious 

song. 
You ought to yeard us singin', O, dem himes was 

good to hear, 
When dat sweet norgan tried to fotch de bery heal)ens 

near. 
■" When I kin read my title clar to mansions in de 

skies, 
I'll bid farwell to eb'ry fear an' wipe my weepin' 

eyes." 
Dat Avas one hime in our Chu'ch our lubly choir 

would sing. 



ii6 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 

Untwell hit sonn' jes' like deir tune was music on de 

wing- 
A risin' an' a risin' up unto de good Lord's throne, 
An' heahn' eb'ry sinner an' a heshin' eb'ry groan. 
Mos' gin'rally 'twas Baptis' here arfter you lef us 

out, 
An' dey all was de people dat I sade did lub to shout. 
Dey warn't so much peculiar, Sar, cept'n when dey 

took fokes in, 
An' den dey used mo' water for de washin' out ob 

sin. 
We'd drap a drap er water for de sin dat was mos' 

rank. 
But dey picked up de seekin' man an' soused him in 

a tank. 
One day down in de ribber dar close by de injine's 

pump 
De preacher hit one nigger's hade aginst a hidden 

stump, 
Which bruk up one baptisin', for de people got afrade, 
An' de ole preacher didn't dar no futher out to wade. 



Dc Sundays an' Dc 'Ligion Dat is Gone. 117 

But nare a bit ob feelin' come betwixt dem fokes an' 

us, 
Two Sundays in de month dey had, an' we de third 

an' fus'. 
Deir Chu'ch was named de " Brick Chu'ch," an' down 

yonder hit Stan's still. 
But our'n was sot de odder way, an' hit was called 

" Grub Hill." 
Dey had a heap er preachers, but we neber had but 

one. 
An' a mo' holier man den he didn't walk beneaf God's 

Sun. 
An' so I disremimber now mos' all de Baptis' 

names, 
Dey was a stayin' so onriglar; do dey strongly claims 
Dat changes was de bestis' for de congregation's 

good, 
While we all tried to keep our preacher all de time we 

could. 
His body warn't so much to see, you'd say 'twas 

tol'bul thin. 
But his big soul was pow'ful in hit's battles for our sin. 



ii8 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 

An' in dat hade ob his'n, Sar, deir was a Ijilin brain 
As full ob 'ligious notions as a cloud's got draps ob 

rain. 
You's yeard yo' Ma speak of him, M'am, you mus' 

hab, I declar, 
For she lubbed him as all us did, de people near an' 

far. 
His name was Mister Burkley an' as nateral was he 
In Grub Hill's ole time pulpit as a ship upon de sea. 
His sole was full ob goodness an' his life ob sacrifice; 
But he don't preach no mo' here now, he's gone to 

Paradise. 
One Sunday 'twas de ole Brick Chu'ch. an' one hit 

'twas Grub Hill, 
As riglar as a sojer goes upon his riglar drill. 
De Grub Hill Chu'ch was full ten mile, de Brick hit 

warn't but seb'n, 
But who cuarn't go dat fur to Chu'ch ain't gwine 

much fur tow'd heab'n. 
We neber mine dem miles we went caze we all lubbed 

to go, 
An' Sunday was de hapyest day ob all we had I kno'. 



Dc Sundays an' Dc 'Ligion Dat is Gone. 119 

To do no wnrk dat holy day our fambly neber 'lows. 
'Cept but to feed de bosses an' de hogs, an' milk de 

cows. 
De Lord is tola us dat good law right in de Holy 

Book, 
An" de cuarn't 'low no liberties wid dat law to be 

took. 
For what de Lord writ wid His finger on de slab ob 

stone 
Is 'portant an' you's got to mine, let what hit stops 

alone. 
But dat cuarn't be no 'sturbance for a raly Christian 

sole. 
He's boun' to do what Cord's Word ses, no matter 

what he's tole. 
Caze lubbin' Cord he lubs His Word, an' lubs to do 

His tas', 
As ef hit 'twas a pledjur he was glad had come to pas'. 
Soon arter brekfas' when de holy Sunday mornin' 

come 
All ob de fokes was fixed for Chu'ch an' ready to 

leab home. 



I20 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 

Ole Peyton driv de carridge hitched to de pa'r ob 

greys 
Whose names was Fan an' Savage, an' a pa'r wid 

frisky ways — 
Dey'd pull dat carridge down to Chn'ch an' back agin 

for sho'. 
An' nar a tech ob Peyton's whip was used to make 

dem go. 
In dar would go ole Miss, Miss Sue, Marse Bill, an' 

yo' An't Ann 
An' by hit's side on his own boss would ride my 

young Marse Ran'. 
Behin' de carridge on a leetle squar made wooden 

seat, 
Ef 'twas a all day meetin', we would cuar our snac' 

to eat. 
'Twas put in a big basket what had hilt sometime 

shampain, 
An' ob dem vic'tls Unc' Julius fixed nare one was 

gwine complain. 
Ole speckly Bill, his ridin' boss, yo' Pa would always 

ride, 



Dc Sundays aii Dc 'Ligion Dat is Gone. 121 

An' den Miss Lucy on dat Charley'd gallop by his 

side. 
I driv de fo' boss wagon filled up full wid girls an' 

boys. 
Who neber had no odder day not haf so full ob 

joys. 
Dem girls an' boys I speaks ob, Sar, warn't chilluns 

but was grown, 
An' eb'ry one in dar, Sar, had a sweetheart he mout 

OW'U. 

Dey all warn't ob de fambly, some was comp'ny what 

we had. 
We always had some comp'ny, 'twas dat comp'ny 

made us glad. 
Dar's scace a night 'cept gues's slep' in de red room 

or de blue, 
An' ef you'd opened de green room do' a gues'd a 

looked at you. 
We picked de nices' straw an' spread hit on de w^agon 

flo'. 
An' put on hit de boys an' girls 'twell dar warn't 

room for mo'. 



122 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 

Dey'd make me drive across de ruts an' ober eb'ry 

stump, 
Untwell dat wagon hardly run but jes' kep' on de 

jump. 
Hit 'twarn't no trouble to go long wid dat dar fo' 

boss team 
Dey went across de country like a race boss in a 

dream. 
For to dat wagon I would hitcb fo' ob our fastes' 

mules, 
An' ef you'd seen us gwine our way you'd think we all 

was fools. 
So soon's we got up to de Chu'ch we would de teams 

onhitch, 
An' dar would be so many dar on almos' eb'ry switch 
Dat hung down from a tree you'd see somebody's 

boss or mule 
A stan'in' tied beneaf de oaks or poplars whar 'twas 

cool. 
An' den de fokes would scatter for to hab a leetle chat, 
De oler fokes gwine disaway an' young ones dey 

gwine dat. 



Dc Sundays an' Dc 'Ligion Dat is Gone. 123 

Dey'cl set down on a root or stump or stan' up in de 

shade, 
An' talk about de politix or what good craps dey'd 

made. 
Dem's ole fokes talkin' dat away de young ones mo' 

like dubs 
Warn't thinkin' 'bout no craps or law but only 'bout 

dey lubs. 
I spec' dar w-as a heap er courtin' done at ole Grub 

Hill, 
Bar's plenty insperation dar for him who has de 

will. 
Beneaf de trees a singin' in dat Summer shiny spot 
I reckon dey who wanted lub mus' some ob lub hab 

got. 
Whar Natur was a courtin' an' de heab'ns an' erf was 

met 
Hit couldn't a been so hard indeed, some gemp'man 

for to get 
His sweetheart to de highes' pitch, an' tell his story 

so 
Dat hit was nigh onpos'bul for de lady to say no. 



124 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 

But dar dey bofe, de ole an' young, would chat an' 

talk untwell 
Unc" George de sexton would come out an' ring de 

las' Chu'ch bell. 
Dey'd move in sloly den, de ladies settin' on one 

side, 
De men upon de tother, an' not eb'n de groom an' 

bride 
Was 'lowed to set togedder. Caze dat warn't de 

Chu'ch's law — 
No brudder set wid sister an' yo Pa mus' leab yo' 

Ma. 
'Twas siperation in de Chu'ch what in de Chu'ch was 

jined, 
A kinder pullin' off de tree what roun' de tree was 

twined. 
I cuarn't ixplain dat rule we had, hit always puzzled 

me, 
An' I'se been tole dat down in town dat rule you 

neber see. 
But here dey mus' set sip'rate, an' de people did not 

rile, 



Dc Sundays an' De 'Ligion Dat is Gone. 125 

Because, I 'spose, dey'd practised hit den for so long 

a while. 
De choir would sing, an' Mister Berkly'd read de 

Word an' pray, 
An' by an' by he'd preach de sarmon in his blessed 

way. 
De people riz an' fell an' set an' kneeled to pray an' 

sing— 
Our Chu'ch, you kno', I tole you, had a rule for eb'ry- 

thing — 
An' lissened to de sarmon, dat was usu'l tol'bul long, 
An' come too wid a sigh or stretch to jine in de las' 

song. 
Do' we didn't call dem songs. Dat warn't de Chu'ch's 

name. 'Twas himes 
We raised an' sung in Grub Hill Chu'ch dem blessed 

anshunt times. 
But arter while dey would git through, somewhar 

about two hours. 
An' gether on de grass to eat among de wile wood 

flowers. 



126 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in flic South. 

You 'members 'bout de Chris'mus dinners I tole you 

we had 
Dem days when war hadn't teched us, an' when all 

(lis Ian" was giad. 
"Well, what we eat at all day meet'n, hit's truf an' hit's 

de fac' 
AVas jes' as good as dat, Sar, "cept we called hit den 

a snac'. 
Upon de grass de ladies spread a table clof as white 
As moonshine on de w-ater, M'am, upon a sunmier 

night. 
An' on hit dey fixed all de things we brung wid us to 

eat, 
De meats an' pickles, brade an' cakes, de pies an' 

odder sweet 
Things good to tas'e. My Sole! 'twas good, Marse 

Charley, sho's you born, 
An' plenty too ob all dem things, do' 'twarn't long fo' 

'twas gone. 
You gits mo' hongry in de woods den you does in de 

house, 



Dc Sundays an' De 'Ligion Dat is Gone. 127 

An' may be dat's how cum de tale about de po' Chu'ch 

mouse. 
Dey gits so hongry 'bout de Chu'ch whar dar ain't 

nuff'n' to eat 
Dey gits mo' po' den odder mice who libs on corn 

an' wheat. 
We'd hab a ham an' mutton an' some chickens baked 

an fried. 
Some sassage an' cole shoul'er, an' dem pickles dat 

was tied 
Up so dey couldn't to pieces drap, dey was dat rich 

an' saf — 
I clar you'd git so hongry you was skeered you 

wouldn't git haf 
Enuff to eat, dem vict'als was so 'ticin' to yo' eyes. 
Den dar'd be cakes an' jelly, sarbes, an' all de kine ob 

pies. 
Deir warn't no fokes had better, Chile, I tells bofe ob 

you dat. 
Caze all we brung along wid us was cooked by Unkle 

Nat. 



128 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 

An' he didn't hab no 'sperior cook no whar about 

dese parts, 
Dey couldn't tech him in meats or brade, or puddin', 

pies, or tarts. 
Ole Nat was jes' a nat'rul cook. De good Lord put 

him dar, 
An' smelHn' ob his cookin' made you hongry. M'am, 

I clar. 
All dese good things we had an' raly mo' den I kin 

tell, 
Caze I cuarn't 'member all de things. I 'members 

none too well 
In dese here days when age is come an" cotched my 

inside brain, 
An' rheumatics my body wid a constant tech ob 

pain. 
But when you got through eatin' ob dat snac 'twas 

sartin sho' 
Yo' stomick w^as full to de top, an' you didn't \vant 

no mo'. 
Den dar was milk an' tea, an' wine, an' plenty too ob 

ice, 



Dc Sundays an' Dc 'Ligioii Dat is Gone. 129 

An' sumpthin' in cle baskit too dat tasted mighty nice 
An' warm upon yo' stomick, ef you sarched right 

g"ood for hit. 
De hunters calls hit medecine to take in case you'se 

bit 
By one de sprade hade moc'sins dat mout be slidin' 

roun' 
An' unbeknownst to you a settin dar upon de groun'. 
But dat was in de cornder of de basket, kinder hid — 
Ole Marster put dat in dar an' de ladies knowed he 

did. 
So ef you wanted some ob dat you'd hab to mine yo'' 

eye, 
An' sorter take a off time chance an' slip hit on de 

sly. 
Dey's mighty 'tic'lar in dem days, 'bout how de young 

men do, 
An' dar was ahvays danger ob somebody ketchin'' 

you. 
But by an' by dey'd quit de snac' an' in de Chu'ch 

retarn 
To do mo' prayin' an' mo' singin' an' a bit mo' larn 

9 



130 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 
From out a shorter eb'nin' sarmon clat de preacher 

'Bout how to die an' rise to Gord, an' how we ought 

er hb 
Dat we mout die in dat dar way ob w hich he tried to 

speak. 
An' how we ought er git mo' strength caze we was 

awful weak. 
An' den de benediction he would 'voke de Lord for 

us, 
An' dat was all day meetin' from de las' unto de 

fus'. 
We'd hitch up den de teams an start back on de way 

we come, 
A joltin' an' a joltin' 'twell by good dark we was 

home. 
De ole fokes an de young fokes den would chat a 

while an' set 
Upon de poach or neaf de trees digestin' what dey 

eat 
An' yeard. Dar's heaper wurk for bofe de brain an' 

stomick, M'am, 



Dc Sundays an' Dc 'Ligion Dat is Gone. 131 

When you's jes' yeard two sarmons, an' been eatin' 

much ob ham 
An' a whole passle sweets an' things hke ah clay 

meetin" snac' — 
Kf you could eber try hit, M'am, you'd kno' hit was a 

fac'. 
Den when de moon was gwine down, an' ole Marster 

prars had sade, 
Dey'd say de " Good Night " on de poach, an' all 

would go to bade, 
i wisht you could er libbed dem days, Marse Charley, 

and Miss Kate, 
But you was born for dat good time a jes' a few years 

late. 
I b'lieb you would a liked de things ob our ole fashion 

wa}' — 
Good Gracious, yonder's Becky, she is done come 

home to-dav! 



UNCLE ISAAC'S EXPERIENCE WITH NEW 
THINGS. 



UNCLE ISAAC'S EXPERIENCE WITH NEW 
THINGS. 



De times is changed. Marse Charley, an' de worl' ain't 

gwine las' long, 
De people's got to projectin' an' doin' things dat's 

wrong. 
Dey's lef deir nat'rul biis'nes' an' is try'n' to take 

a han' 
In doin' de Almighty's wurk an' managin' His plan. 
He ain't gwine stan' hit long, I kno', dis bigity dey's 

got. 
An' de fus' thing dat dem fokes kno' He's gwine wipe 

out de lot. 
Dey thinks dey's mighty peart. Smart Elecks wdiat 

dey is, 
A foolin' wid dem awful things de good Lord knows 

is His. 

[135] 



136 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 

Dey's cotched de lightnin' out de skies, an' drawee! 

hit like a wire 
Across de erf — 'tis dangous to be triflin' wid dat 

fire. 
I'se always yeard dat ef you took a tree de lightnin' 

struck 
For wood an' burnt hit in yo' house, you's sho' gwine 

hab bad luck; 
An' chances is dat sometime soon yo' house is gwine 

git hit, 
Caze lightnin' draws de lightnin', an' 'twon't do to 

fool wid it. 
Don't laff, Marse Charley, what I ses, I tells you hit 

is true, 
I'se been an' seen hit, Sar, mysef, an' knows what I 

tells you. 
But dat ain't all dey 'spires to do an' aims at now- 

a-days 
In all dis foolishnes' dat's come wid deir new fangled 

ways. 
Dey's gwine kill heap er fokes sometimes, dat's what 

I prophesy. 



Uncle Isaac's Experience JJ^ifli Nezc Tilings. 137 

An' I'm gwine keep away from town, caze I don't 

want to die 
In no sich fractious way. but when de good Lord 

tells me go, 
I wants to go as nat'rnl, Sar, as when I come, you 

kno'. 
Dey's got de homnybusses runnin' all about de 

town. 
An' gwine u]) hill as fas'. Miss Kate, as dey is gwine 

down. 
An' nare a bit ob boss or mule hitched to hit's ary 

een — 
'Tain't nat'rul, an' no sich torn fool thing I ain't neber 

seen. 
But dar dey comes an' dar dey goes wid jes' a leetle 

v.heel 
Hung on a pole aginst a wire on which de lightnin' 

steal 
Along dey ses. You cuarn't see nuffin 'cept de 

runnin' cuar, 
An' when one stopped I ses. ses I, " Hit ain't gwine 

move from thar." 



138 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in flic Soiifli. 

But bless yo' sole, Marse Charley, den de man jes' 

move a screw, 
An" long she went so mortal fas' you mout a sade 

she flew. 
Git on one Sar? Naw Sar, ole Isaac neber eben 

tried. 
I tells you now, on one dem things I neber am gwine 

ride. 
Why. 'tis de fac\ Marse Charley, do' I ain't off'n 

much afeered. 
When I seed dat thing runnin' loose I got so tur'bul 

skeered 
I almos' runned mysef . Hit look like mir'cul times 

had come. 
An' when sich is de sho' 'nufl^ case I wants to be at 

home. 
But dat ain't all dey's doin' dar in dat new Richmon' 

town — 
'Tain't ole no mo', Marse Charley, an' de place is 

sho' gwine down — 
Dey's changed de good ole ways yo' kinfokes had 

an' dat so fas' 



Uncle Isaac\s Experience JJlth Nczv Things. 139 

Dat siimpthin's boim' to happen dar, dat wickednes' 

cuarn't las'. 
Hit made me sad, Marse Charley, an' I tarmined dat 

I would 
Jes' hurry up my bus'ness dar de fastes' dat I could. 
An' git back home to Becky whar 'twas peaceful ef 

'twas slo', 
To stay an' lib our quiet life 'twell yonder I mus" 

go. 
An' so I called to mine de things I'd got to git an* 

fix, 
An' 'mongst de lis' ob things dere was a vile ob 

Number Six. 
I went to git dat Number Six in Mister Miller's 

sto' — 
He come from up "bout Nottoway, I b'liel), Marse 

Poke, you kno' ! 
But when I seed him in de sto' I b'liebed his mine was 

gone, 
I neber seed no gempleman in sich a cuarrm' on. 
He had a black knob nigh his ear an' in a leetle 

hole 



140 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in flic South. 

He poked his mouf an' talked, but Sar, to save my 

mortal sole 
I hardly dars to try to tell what hit 'twas dat he 

sade. 
Hit soundid, an' I lissened, as ef he'd done los' his 

hade. 
But sump'n like dis seemed what I yeard, " Nex' fo' 

wid eighteen please." 
" Hillo ! Poke Miller. Yes. Is dat you George? 

About dem trees? 
Yes! You don't hear? Dey cut us off. Nummine. 

You say you'll sell? 
Haf doz'n ob Castor He. All right. I'll sen' hit 

up. Yes. Well! 
To-morrer? Naw, Good joke," he sade. An" den he 

laffed. " Too high," 
He sade agin. " I'll stop by on my way down tow^n. 

Good-bye." 
An' den he retched an' pulled a leetle peg, an' ses he. 

"Off"; 
An' b'liebin' dat I ought'n 'sprise him, I gin a leetle 

cough. 



Uncle Isaac's Experience IVitJi Nezc Things. 141 

He looked up den as kindly, wid a smile upon his 

face, 
An' look ob welcome, sayin', " Ike I'm glad you's in 

my place." 
How cum he call me " Ike " you reck'n, I neber like 

dat "Ike," 
An' hit's de one thing 'bout Marse Poke dat I ain't 

neber like. 
I ain't no " Ike," he ought to kno', but " Isaac " is 

my name, 
An' sich a nickname "pears to me, I clar, a sin an' 

shame. 
An' den he shook me by de han", an" tole we howdydo 
Jes' nat'rul as he eber did. Marse Charley I tells 

you, 
De nian he skeered me, an" so bad I didn't kno' zactly 

whar 
I was. I jes' could ax, Marse Poke, for Gord"s sake, 

what's dat dar 
A hangin' on de wall. Was dat you taikin, all alone? 
He sort er shook hesef" an' grinned, an' sade, " Ike 

dat's a plone." 



142 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 

But dat word gib me no idee ob what he's dri\'in" at. 
For I ain't neber }-eard ob no sich thing as plone. 

'• What's dat 
Marse Poke," I axed. " Hit 'tis a mighty useful 

thing," sade he, 
A tryin' to look serus like an' a convincin' me. 
'" A great kinvenience to all bus'nes' fokes. Hit lets 

you talk 
To people who libs far a way, too far for you to walk 
To line dem, an" wicl dis in'sment you simply has 

to cotch 
Yo' wire on deirs, den ring a bell, an' dat will sartin 

fotch 
J^em to de plone." But I cuarn't understan' no how 

dat thing. 
For how is I a bell dat's forty miles away gwine ring? 
Hit Stan's to gumption dat you cuarn't. Dar's sump- 
thin' dar dat's wrong, 
Dat distance is onreas'n'bul, an' entierly too long. 
He sade dar was a nixtion made — dat's when de wires 

is jined — 
An' axed me ef Fd like to talk. I pos'tively reclined. 



Uncle Isaac's E.vpcrioicc IJlfh AVa' Things. 143 

" Hit 'tain't gwine hurt you Ike," he sacle, " I'll let 

you talk to Giles, 
Giles Brown dat libs at Wilk'son Shop, I reck'n 

dat's forty miles." 
" I wants you larn about dese plones, an' see how 

good de\' wurks." 
An' so I went up to de thing, but narvous like de 

jurks 
Dat gits a po' blin' stag'grin' boss, an' trimblin' an' 

afeered. 
Case I don't want tech nuffin,' Sar, ob which I'se 

neber yeard. 
An' den Marse Poke sade, " Seb'n on fo'," an' den 

a bell hit ring. 
" Now put dis to yo' ear," he sade. I didn't want 

tech de thing; 
But I jes' hitched my britches up, an' stuck hit to 

my ear. 
An' sho, enuff dar come a voice I could not hep' but 

hear. 
"Hillo," hit sade, "Who's dat?" "Who's dat?" 
'* Hit's me," I shakin' sade. 



144 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the Soiitli. 

An' eb'ry miniiit I ixpict to see mysef drap clade. 

" Who's you? " hit axed, " Well, W>11 ! " " I is ole 

Isaac," den I 'plied. 
"What does you want?" I yeard agin — I trimbled 

'twell 1 cried. 
" I don't want nuffin', Sar, please Gord," I sade, 

" 'cept to go home, 
An' ef I gits back dar onct mo' from hit I'll neber 

come 
Away agin." An' den dar come a bur-r-r, a buz'n-n, 

an' buz'n-n 
Right in my ear like bumble bees an' hornets by de 

doz'n, 
An' fo' de lord I drapped dat thing an' neber sade 

Good-bye, 
But out'n dat sto" I runned as fas' as any bird could 

fly- 

I knowed hit 'twas a disprit case, an' I was in a fix, 
An' so I stopped for nuf^n', clean forgot my Number 

Six. 
I'se sorry too, Rebeccy's ailin' much wid cramps ob 

late; 



Uncle Isaac's Experience JJlfli Xezc Things. 145 

Please sen' her some ob Number Six when you goes 

back, Miss Kate. 
I'd had enufF ob numl)ers, Sar, an' I didn't want no 

mo' — 
Dar's debils in dem numb'rin' plones, bad debils, 

M'am, I kno'. 
Deir want no chance for nobody to talk in dat dar 

plone, 
Alarse Poke was standin' off a piece, an' I was dar 

alone. 
Needn't tell me 'bout no lightnin' caze de lightnin' 

hit cuarn't talk. 
An' you cuarn't hear nobody, M'am, w'hen hit's too 

far to walk. 
Naw Sar, how T gwine tell how cum hit 'twas? Hit 

'twan't no Giles, 
Caze Giles was up at Wilk'son Shop, well nigh dat 

forty miles. 
I don't kno' nuffin' 'bout hit, an' Pll tech hit, Sar, no 

mo', 
Dat's one thing you kin sot right down for sartin an' 

for sho'. 
10 



146 Uncle Isaac: or Old Da\s in flic Soiifli. 

So soon's I got my senses good I started for to 

fine 
Marse Jeems, an' axed a gemp'man, who looked 

gineroiis an' kine, 
Ef he could tell me wharabonts I moiit look for 

Marse Jeems, 
An' would you b'lieb hit dar I was across de street 

hit seems 
From whar his office was in dat big Chamber ob 

Commerce. 
An' ob all houses to git in or out hit 'tis de worse 
I eber seed. I walked into de open big front do', 
An' dar a black man sade Marse Jeems was on de 

sebenth f\o\ 
He was a standin' in a do'way ob a leetle room, 
A holdin' in his han', I b'lieb, a dustin' feader broom. 
I axed him please to sho' me which a way I'd fine de 

stars, 
Tnstade he sade, '* Step right in here." I saw in dar 

some chars, 
An' b'liebed he'd axed me to set down imtwell he 

foun' de time 



Uiicic Isuac\'; Experience JVitJi Neic Things. 147 

To sho" me whar to tine de steps up which I had to 

chme; 
An' so I went into his room an" 'nmbly took a seat, 
Not payin' no attintion, l)nt jes' lookin' in de street, 
When Lord-a-marcy, fo' I knowed I saw de flo had 

riz — 
My back Ijone sot to shiv'rin', an' my marrow bones 

dey friz. 
I thnnk de jedgment day had slio'ly come, an' we was 

boim' 
To Kingdom come, an' yit I thnnk, " Thank God we 

ain't gwine down ! " 
My heart was in my thote, Sar, an' my voice was. 

choked right stiH, 
I couldn't pray, I jes' could feel, hit is de good 

Lord's will. 
But as I passed anodder flo', I yeard somebody 

say, 
" Hit's gwine to sno'." Hit busted on me den, in no 

sich way 
Ts fokes gwine talk ob " Jedgment Come." Dat 

struck mv mine as proof — 



14H Ibuic Isaac: or Old Days in the Souih. 

Some biler mus' a busted an' hit's blowin' us through 

de roof. 
I tried to yell an' holler, but I couldn't to save my 

life, 
But jes' my meanness come to mine an' membrance 

ob my wife. 
I couldn't make, Sar, nar bit ob soun', my mine hit 

'fused to ac'. 
I knowed I was a gwine, mos' gone, an' dat was plain 

a fac'. 
I warnt gwine see my wife no mo', my time was come 

to die, 
An' in my sole I tried to say, " Rebeccy, wife Good- 
bye." 
So par'lyzed was my eb'ry thought hit I could scacely 

think. 
But when I felt de roof had come I yeard a leetle 

clink. 
An' at dat minnit, Sar, dat nigger open flung de 

do'. 
An' turnin' roun' to whar I sot, he sade, " De sebenth 

flo'." 



Uncle Isaac's Experience IVitli Nez^' Things. 149 

At fus' I tlumk I'd git a stick an' broke his measly 

hade. 
For he'd done skeered me den an' dar 'twell I was 

mo'n haf dade. 
Marse Charley, den I'd got so mad I raly had no 

sense. 
An' I'd a sho'ly kilt dat man ef eber I'd commence 
To beat him as I wanted to — De Lord forgib de sin, 
I'll try not let my passion git de bes' ob me agin. 
Thank God de Christian 'ligion got hit's holt an' 

fotched me 'bout ! 
1 larned my skeer was ig'nunce, an' so, Sar, I jes' got 

out. 
But dat black nigger mout a knowed I was a stranger 

man. 
An' comin' from de country dat I didn't much under- 

stan' 
About de nelevators what but newly dey is built, 
An' saved me from de skeer I got dat nearly had me 

kilt. 
But fokes don't think 'bout odder fokes as onct dey 

ust er do, 



150 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the Soiifli. 

An' kinenes' now ain't runnin' loose. I clar, 'twixt 

me an' you. 
I tole Marse Jeems al^oiit my skeer, Marse Jeems is 

a good man. 
He kinely sade 'Twas all becaze I didn't quite under- 

stan' 
What 'twas dat brung me up. A nelevator's what 

dey call 
De thing, he 'splained to me, an' hit climes up aginst 

a wall 
Dar want no danger in hit. Hit jes' cuarred you to 

yo' flo' 
W'iddout vo' walkin' up dem stars a thousan' steps 

or mo". 
Den when I had done axed him for to please to buy 

my meat. 
An' to^e him I was hurrin' home an" nius" go down de 

street, 
He took me up de passage an" to whar de steps went 

down, 
An' I ain't neber been so glad as when I retched de 

eroun'. 



Uinic Isaac's Experience IJltJi Ne-zc Things. 151 

'Taiii't right, Marse Charley, I cuarn t b'Heb hit, Sar, 

hit cuarn't be right, 
De Lord cuarn't be approvin' what ain't nat'rul to tie 

sight. 
An' neber sence de worl' was made from Bersheber 

to Dan 
We fokes ain't knowed de flo's to rise no whar in dis 

Gord's Ian'. 
De people dey ain't 'umble, dey's ezalted 'twell dey's 

proud. 
An' I'm gwine keep mysef from out dat stiff an' 

naked crowd. 
Amelia's good enuff for me, I'll stay here 'twell I 

die, 
Here is contintment now, Miss Kate, de good Ian' 

by an' by. 
I ain't gwine back to town no mo', but here I'm 

gwine to stay, 
Whar me an' my Rebeccy can lib in de ole time way, 
As onct hit 'twas in my young days when joy was in 

de Ian', 



152 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in tJic Sontli. 

An' fokes had 'nnff to do, Sar, widdont meddlin' wid 
Gord's plan. 

De butter's come Rebeccy now, an' dar's a done ash- 
cake, 

Come gib dese chilhms one mo' snac' for good ole 
timeses sake. 

Dat buttermilk an' cake is good, I yeard, M'am, what 
you sade. 

Rebeccy git de 'lasses too, I wants some on my 
brade. 



MARSE RAN'S HOSS. 



MARSE RAN'S HOSS. 



I'se nel^er tole you 'bout dat boss, an" bow dat day 

be died? 
Wbv, wben I got np to Alarse Ran', dar be laid l)y liis 

side. 
I nms' a been so strained in talkin' den a1)ont Marse 

Ran', 
I oberlooked de dyin' boss in griebin' for de man. 
Naw, Sar, de boss warn't sabed, but on dat l^attlefiel' 

ob woe 
He bled 'long wid bis marster. an' wid bim be tried 

to go. 
'Tis migbty nigb as sad, Sar, now to think "bout dat 

dar boss 
As 'tis ob my yonng marster. Dey is been my life- 
long cross 
In memory to bar along de tired part ob my life— 

[155] 



156 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in tJic SoufJi. 

Dey all is gone, clem ole time frien's, 'cept Becky dar, 

my wife. 
I wisht I could a sabed dat boss, an' brimg- him bome 

agin. 
I b'lieb bit would a boped me in de new life dat set 

in 
Wid dat sad day ob Gettysburg, an' wbich cuarn't 

bab no een 
Untwell ole Isaac's lookt bis las' upon de gole an" 

green 
Ob ole Amelia's fiel's, an' yeard de angel's sullem 

call 
To come up dar an' jine 'um wbar you cuarn't go 

way at all. 
We tbree was always gwine toguther, den for us to 

part 
Was mos' too much for Isaac, an' bit like to broke 

bis beart. 
Dey went away in glory, an' dey lef me bere in 

])ains, 
Wid grief a pullin' on my sole like Sabage on de 

reins, 



Marsc Ron's Hoss. 157 

Hit had to bus' up siimpthin' for sich mis'i y could 

not las', 
An' so hit busted up my life, an' lef me wid de pas'. 
But ef I could a brung- him home, an' kep' him here 

to stay, 
An' fed, an' curr'd, an' rubbed, an' breshed him off 

twict eb'ry day, 
Dat mout a made me sorter feel some nigher to 

Marse Ran' — 
De seein' ob de hoss a fetchin' 'membrance ob de 

man. 
But always stay'n toguther dey was jined too, Sar, in 

deff; 
'Cept'n I caurn't tell how 'twas at all dat Isaac den 

was lef. 
Bofe on us, Sar, belonged to him, an' nar one could 

he spar. 
But I was lef to stay down here, Bruce went wid him 

up dar. 
His mammy was a Black Hawk mar, a Red Eye colt 

his sire, 



158 Uucic Isaac: or Old Days in the SoiitJt. 

An" nar a boss in dese here parts could rank 'mongst 

bosses bigber. 
His bres' was broad an' easy, an' bis ankles clean 

an neat, 
Like deni de bigb born ladies sbow a walkin' on de 

street. 
His weatbers dim a leetle bigb, jes' bigb 'nnff for de 

slope 
Dat makes a graceful back line wben you sont bim 

in a lope. 
His rum]) was roun' an' plump, Sar, wid de barres' 

ob a slide. 
To make you kno' dat boss was gwine bowcum bis 

marster ride. 
His nose was small enuff, I b'lieb, to drink out ob a 

glass. 
An' not too mucb ob dayligbt fotcbed 'twixt bim, 

Sar, an' de grass. 
His tail bung wabin', glis'nin', Sar, jes' like a girl's 

gole ba'r. 
His leetle years an' bade a arcbin' yonder in der ar. 



Marsc Rail's Hoss. 159 

His mussels stood out fa'r to 'veal what kiutler 

streugth he had, 
Wid nar a pint about him dat a hossman thought 

was bad. 
His stride was sumpthin' monstrous, an' o' a ten foot 

gate 
He flung hesef as easy as you'd jump dat stick Miss 

Kate. 
A king's name. Sar. dey gib him, but for short dey 

called him " Bruce "; 
An' when, M'am, he got started hit 'twas like de win' 

turned loose, 
jes' let Marse Ran' stan' neaf dat tree a hour by 

crack ob day. 
His horn a blowin', windin', driftin' up de stable 

wa}', 
Dat hoss was set a jumpin', crazy, so M'am. dat you 

mout 
A thunk you yeard him holl'rin', " Isaac come an' let 

me out." 
An' ef you neber answer quick he'd git so awful 

mad, 



i6o Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in flic South. 

You'd think he'se gwine bus' eb'rything, an' wish, 

Sar, dat you had. 
Den when Marse Ran' was on him, an' a openin' was 

de houn's, 
De red fox gwine a scurrin' 'cross de misty, grey low- 

groun's. 
Den doubhn' in Ocmulgee, an' now gwine towards 

de mill, 
A runnin' on de pastur fence, den humpin" up de 

hill, 
A way off yonder sneakin', an' den racin' on his 

track, 
A brazen ole smart Elleck, now a comin' right 

straight back, 
You'd sho' see sumpthin' in de ar a scummin' nigh 

de erf. 
An' dat was Bruce a fiyin' like de didn't want tech de 

turf. 
'Twas like a streak ob sorrel jes' a splittin' through 

de ar, 
Marse Ran' a settin' in de sad'l like you sets in a 

char. 



Marsc Rail's Hoss. i6i 

He an' de hoss an' sad'l, Sar, was begkied into one 

piece — 
A man an' hoss got jined into a new kine ob a 

beas'. 
I see hit ah agin so plain. Look yonder, yonder 

look! 
Jes' by dat pint ob ches'nuts whar de road is made a 

crook. 
My Gord, M'am, ain't dat music, what dem houn's 

is soundin' now? 
Dey's runnin' by de sight, an' dey'll soon cotch ole 

Red I 'low. 
Hark, hark, to him ole Fashion, you is gwine now 

Music, hark ! 
Ole Miss is in de middle, an' dat's Black Dick's ole 

time bark. 
Ah, here dey comes, de riders, but who'se dat dar in 

de lead? 
Marse Ran' an' Bruce, an' nar one else, I knowed dat 

'fo I seed. 
My Gord how dat hoss races, wid his hade an' tail 

out straight, 
II 



i62 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 

Now hystin' into flyin', Sar, right o' dat ten foot 

gate. 
Dey looks not like dey's erfly things, a rale hoss an' 

a man, 
But angel-man on angel-hoss a sailin' cross de Ian'. 
An' so he'se now, young Mistis', for a sperit he was 

made 
To rise from off dat battlefiel' on which I saw him 

dade. 
An' how cum dat his hoss ain't dar? He died dat 

same day too, 
A frien' dat was de fastes', an' as faithful, Sar, an' 

true 
As on (lis erf, no whar you go, you fine ar human 

frien'. 
An' is dar enny reason for dat lub to bus' an' en'? 
Some how or nutlier I cuarn't hep' but b'liel) dat hoss 

to be 
A angel-hoss up yonder wid his marster. M'am, you 

see ! 
I hopes hit 'tain't onchristian, caze I wants to hab 

hit so, 



Alarsc Ron's Hoss. 163 

An' ef 'tain't wrong 'fo Gord, I'm gwine to keep de 

thought, you kiio' ! 
I clar, Marse Charley, when I gits to 'member an' to 

tell 
Ob dem ole days, an" deir ole ways, I clar. Miss Kate, 

M'am, well. 
Indeed hit "pears like 'tain't no thought, but fac' is 

what I see, 
An' dat ole life is back agin, an" in hit flar is me. 
I tries to tell 'bout what dar was, an" "stead I tells 

what is — 
De pas" ain't pas' no mo" at all, but present"s what 

hit "tis. 
An" den dey"d come back fom de chase, de reins a 

hangin" loose. 
Marse Ran" a smilin", singin", an" dat proud highflyer 

Bruce 
A sort er dancin', an' a showin' dat he knowed de 

tail 
His marster had was got by him a flyin" like a gale 
Across de liel's an" gullies, on de hard groun', in de 

san' — 



164 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in Ihc South. 

I b'liel) like me dat boss was prond ob my young 

Marster Ran'. 
An' \vben we got in to de war, we knowed den what 

he was — 
I clar to Heab'n, M'am, dat he done all dat we fokeses 

does. 
Marse Sweeney'd blow de gallop, gallop, blow de 

walk, he'd walk; 
He done mos' eb'rything dat we could do 'cept'n 

'twas to talk. 
Nar nicker'd nick 'twell Rebellee, he didn't want 

sleep 'twell Taps, 
He knowed de bugler's soun's as well's a farmer 

knows his craps. 
You blow^ de call to water, Sar, an' dat boss sho' 

would drink. 
But thirsty nar anodder time as eber I could think. 
When Boots an' Saddles was de note dat brave ole 

Sweeney soun' 
'Twas almos' much as I could do to keep Bruce on de 

o-roun'. 



Alarsc Rail's Hoss. 165 

But when he blowed de Charge, my Gord, dat hoss 

was sho' a sight ! 
Plis eyes all wile, his body trimblin', an' de curb rein 

tight 
As iron, an' ef den Marse Ran' hatln't a let him free 

rein go, 
He'd sartin bus' in splinters, an' 'twarn't no use tell 

him " Whoa." 
He was a nat'rul sojer-hoss as my young Marster 

Ran' 
Was nat'rul born an' bred to be de braves' sojer-man. 
Dat las' sad day ob Bruce lifetime I rubbed him down 

so bright 
His sorrel color lookt to me like gole dus' in de light. 
His mane like spun silk sailin', an' his pride a sight 

to see, 
A sayin' to all on us dar, " jes' lookt Marse Ran' an' 

me." 
1 hilt his hade untwell Marse Ran his sad'l he'd good 

got on. 
An' den befo' I'de time to think dey bofe on "um was 

eone. 



i66 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the Soittli. 

I hollered to Marse Ran' '' Good-bye "; I'll grieb now 

'twell I die, 
I neber kiss ole Bruce dat day, an' tole him too 

" Good-bye." 
Dey went like joy a tiashin' M'am, when long- hit 

cuarn't abide, 
An' den 1 seed dem stoppin' short close by de 

gin'rul's side. 
One time he darted like a narrow to dat awful fence, 
To speak to Gin'rul Garnett dar, jes' when de wuss 

commence. 
I spec' dat was de las' word dat brave Gin'rul Garnett 

sade, 
A ans'rin' ob Marse Ran', for in a sec'n dey shot 

him dade. 
Den back through all dat smoke an' deff Bruce brung 

Marse Ran' away 
So swif you scace could see his laigs, but jes' de man 

in grey. 
But Bruce was done his work an' life. I'se tole you 

Marse Ran' died 



Marse Ran's Hoss. 167 

A piece beyant dat tur'ble spot. Dar Bruce laid at 

his side. 
Dade, dade, he too, his velvit eyes stretched upward 

tow'd de sky, 
I knowed he didn't want hb no mo' when his voung- 

Marster die. 
Dat was his glor'ous een, my blessed Marster's hoss ! 

Poor Bruce, 
I hopes you had a sole brave hoss for Gord to turn 

a loose ! 
Good-bye, my chilluns. Don't cry M'am, my los' 

was sho' deir gain. 
Rebeccy, bett'r take in dem close, hit looks like hit's 

ewine rain. 



UNCLE ISAAC HAS MORE EXPERIENCE. 



UNCLE ISAAC HAS MORE EXPERIENCE. 



Marse Charley don't you recken dat de jedgmeiit's 

cornin' 'long, 
De people's got so vile like, an' is doin' so much 

wrong? 
De worl' seems upside down, Sar, an' de country is 

upsot 
As bad in crazy notions as dem dat de town is got. 
I'se been dat skeerecl dis week, Sar, dat I hardly dars 

to go 
Fur h-om de house or Becky; I don't want to lef de 

do'. 
Dese times is fulled up to.de brim wid foolishness an' 

sin, 
An' fokes is got so curous now wid all dere pro- 

jectin'. 

[171] 



172 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in flic South. 

Good manners don't concarn 'em, nor de vartues ob 

de sole; 
Dey's sacrificed mos' ob dat, Sar, for dollars dat is 

g-ole. 
'Twas honor once wid all de fokes who libbed in dis 

here Ian', 
But money's lub is got de mos', an' dat, Sar, ruins a 

man. 
De Chu'ches, eben dey ain't right, an' Sar, I dars to 

say, 
Dey'd better git to singin' an' mo' often too to pray. 
Dey tried Unk' Jonah tother day for dancin' week fo' 

las'. 
An' would you b'lieb hit, when dat trial raly come to 

pas', 
Dey neber done a thing to him, do all ob us had 

thunk 
Dey'd tarn him out; an' all becase he sade dat he was 

drunk. 
De dancin' was a nawful sin, but not de drunk, an' 

dat's 
A strainin' at de camels an' a chokin' on de gnats. 



Uncle Isaac Has More Experience. 173 

De Chu'ch is gwine to bust up ef dat is de way dey 

does, 
For in Gord's Chu'ch dem idees, Sar, 'tis sartin neber 

was, 
An' neber will be ef de Lord is gw^ine to hab His 

wish. 
An' 'fore dey knows dem fokes will burn like Moses 

in de bush. 
How cum de fokes ain't got no sense, an' what's got 

in deir hade? 
I sho' misstan's heap dat dey does, an' mos' all dat is 

sade. 
Marse Charley wdiat does " divers " mean? I don't 

conceib dat word, 
An' fur as I now 'members, I ain't hit befo' is yeard. 
Mo' den one kine, an' diffrunt kine ob sickness or ob 

fokes? 
I knowed dat nigger was a fool, his sarmons jes' 

some jokes. 
Dey ain't no mo' a sarmon den a bucket is a well, 
xA.n' ha'f de time dat nigger don't kno' what he'se 

try'n' to tell. 



174 Ciuic Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 

De nigger ain't a nat'riil preacher do he nat'rul 

sings — 
His songs is music sho' 'miff, Sar, but mixed up is 

de things 
He tries to gospul on de fokes, an' ef dey had good 

sense 
Dey'd stop dese black fool preachers fo', Sar, dey 

commence. 
A nigger makes a sexton, but when he tries to 

preach. 
Hit's hystin' for de simmons dat is hung too high to 

reach. 
I axed you 'bout dem " divers," caze de odder Sun- 
day night, 
Down yonder at de colored Chu'ch dat nigger Gabrul 

White 
A preachin' ob de sarmon, sade he took up for de 

tex', 
*' De Lord a healin' divers ob deseases," an' den 

nex'. 
He sade he " 'vided up de sarmon into sev'rul parts. 



Uncle Isaac Has More Experience. 175 

An' hoped de congregation would receib hit in deir 

hearts." 
" Dey sho' had heap er kine ob sicknes'," he 

reck'n'd, " ober thar 
'Bout whar de Lord was preachin' dis, a heap an' 

mo' to spar. 
But den," he sade, " he spec' dat was mos' Ukely what 

we had, 
Caze sicknes' in dis country had done gone an' got 

as bad 
As hit could git," he reckened, " an' dat ole Jeru- 

salum 
Hadn't got no sort er 'vantage when de time ob sick- 
nes' come. 
An' den," he sade, " de Small Pox is a mighty bad 

desease. 
But hit you kin git cured ob, ef de bumps you'll only 

grease 
Wid coon grease, an' de doctor understan' de Small 

Pox way, 
^^'hen hit's upon a pusson sot an' sho'ed 'twas gwine 

to stay. 



176 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 

An' Chorry, you kin cure dat," he monstrated up an' 

down, 
" Ef you gits you quick a doctor, who ain't not fur 

off de groun'. 
An' eben in de Fever dat is yaller, dar's a chance, 
Ef you gits you a nuss as good as ole Miss MolHe's 

Nance. 
But ef you gits de ' divers,' " den dat black fool 

nigger sade, 
" Hit 'tain't no use 0I3 talkin' for hit's 'Good-bye 

John,' you'se dade." 
I knowed dat he was sassin' dar widdout a bit ob 

sense, 
An' nar a idee in his hade befo' he had commence. 
Dey's gwine bust up de Chu'ch, Sar, ef dey keeps 

along dis road, 
An' 'ligion's gwine start backward from de way hit's 

pintin' tow'd. 
I tole you I was skeered dis week, an' so I was indeed. 
I yeard an' seed what here befo' I neber yeard or 

seed. 
I was a fotchin' home a turkle Chewsday eb'nin' late. 



Uncle Isaac Has More Experience. 177 

An' jes' befo' 1 retched de tarn dar by de stable gate, 
I passed one dese here men fokes what dey calls a 

benquilqiiis', 
Who'se larnt to pucker up his mouf in some sort ob a 

twis', 
An' fling- his voice mos' any whar, an' in mos' any- 
thing, 
A settin' hit to talkin' or a makin' hit to sing. 
I warn't a studyin' nuffin', but jes' slo'ly gwine my 

way, 
When fo' de Lord in Heab'n, I yeard dat turkle say, 
" Now when is you gwine drap me, when is you 

gwine drap me down? " 
" For Gord's sake now," I sade, an' den I drapped him 

on de groun', 
An' runned a trimblin' to my house as fas' as I could 

run, 
A prayin', an' a won'drin' what dat turkle could er 

done 
To git a voice ob human kine, an' talk to me like dat, 
About a drappin' ob him down, an' Sar' I drapped 

him flat. 



178 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in flic South . 

Brit by an' by I yeard somebody knockin' on my do', 
An' dar a man stood at hit, who sade, " Howdy Uncle 

Joe." 
" I ain't name Joe," I 'pHed to him, " but Isaac is my 

name. 
I'm well I thanky Marster, an' I hope yon is de 

same." 
" Yo' turkle's up de road," he sade, " an' hadn't you 

better walk 
Up dar an' git him unkle, for clat turkle didn't talk. 
'Twas me who done de talkin'. Now go git him for 

yo' wife." 
But Sar, I wouldn't a teched dat turkle not to sabe 

my life. 
I don't kno' nuffin' 'bout de benquilquis', but dis I 

kno', 
A turkle what kin talk to me I'm gwine to sho' let go. 
Dis trabblin' roun de country wid a nar a bit ob aim. 
But skeerin' ignunt pussons, Sar, hit 'tis a sin an' 

shame. 
I reck'n I'se out de times, Sar, an' I cuarn't quite 

understan' 



Uncle Isaac Has More Experience. 179 

About de fangied things dat's come here lately in de 

Ian'; 
An' when I sees one ob dese 'ventions what dey's 

gone an' built, 
I gits a crawlin' in my back like I was gwine git 

kilt— 
A sorter chill an' creepin' dat I hardly kin ixplain. 
But Sar, hit 'tis de ekal ob mos' any sort er pain. 
De odder day I went to fine dat yonder one eared 

hog, 
An' gittin" kind er winded, Sar, I set down on dat 

log 
Dat's layin' in de forks ob road dar nigh de gran'ry 

gate. 
You knows de log I speaks ob for you'se set dar wid 

Miss Kate — 
When fo' I knowed I yeard a soun' like win' betwixt 

a crack. 
Whew, whew, hit sounded comin' up a swish behin' 

my back. 
I looked up in a minnit, an' Marse Charley, Lordy, 

dar 



i8o Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in tlic Soutli. 

I saw a sight dat skeered me so hit mos' unkinked my 

har. 
A buggy had done busted loose, an' on two ob de 

wheels, 
A man was settin' an' a gwine like yuars across de 

fiel's. 
One was a great big high wheel, an' de odder hit 

'twas small, 
An' hitched behin' each odder, wid no way to go at 

all. 
'Twarn't right for dem to stan' up, an' howcum day 

went along 
I cuarn't deceib to sabe my life. I mus' hab got all 

wrong. 
You reck'n my hade is tangled an' my senses is all 

gone? 
I'm feered I'll git so arter while I cuarn't weed out 

my corn. 
Wid nar a thing a pullin', Sar, an' nar a thing to 

push 
Dem wheels an' man went down de road in Sar, a 

parfec' rush. 



Uncle Isaac Has More Experience. i8i 

I hollered when I saw de thing an' fell back on de 

log, 
An' hnrt my rheumaticky laig, an' neber cotch dat 

hog 
'Twell Wensday, when down yonder in de guarden at 

de spring 
I foun' him hard a rootin' an' a spilin' eb'rything. 
What for you call dat thing I seed de man a try'n to 

ride? 
Marse Charley was hit nat'rul? Is de ole time things 

all died? 
A bisickem, you ses hit 'twas? I cuarn't quite under- 

stan'. 
I'd like to sick de dogs on sich an' sick 'em out de 

Ian'. 
I mean dese all new things dey's fotched us in dese 

later days, 
A chasin' out de country all ob our ole fashion ways. 
You cuarn't stop any longer, an' is gwine to hunt 

to-day? 
A drove ob patridges is usin' down de lowgroun' 

way. 



i82 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in tlic South. 

Turn to de lef Marse Charley, when mos' at de 

spring you come, 
An' in dat fiel' I'm ahiios' sho' you'se sartin to fine 

some. 
Good mornin', Sar, I'm busy too, I'm got to men' 

my cuart. 
Rebeccy how dat chile is growed, an' Lordy, ain't he 

smart ! 



UNCLE ISAAC'S LAMENT. 




MARSE CHARLEY.' 



UNCLE ISAACS LAMENT. 



Fm glad you liked de suae', M'am, in de days dat 

now is pas' 
Fse gin yo' Par a heap like dat ont dar upon dat 

grass. 
He'd come down to dis cabin for Ant Becky's hot 

hoe-cake — 
Nar one would suit him ha'f as good as dem Ant 

Becky make. 
I feels not much like talkin', Sar, besides hit's gittin' 

late. 
An' while for you hit mout'n be wrong 'twon't do for 

you Miss Kate 
To be a walkin' in de woods arfter de night has fell. 
An' now my mine is runnin' back I'm feared dat I 

cuarn't tell 
You nuffin' dat is joyous, for I'm got my sadful tone, 

[187] 



i88 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 

Dat tech dat stops yo' singin' an' den cunjers up yo' 

moan. 
De pas' is pas' foreber an' hit's happines' is gone : 
No cradle's in de wheatfiel', an' no song comes ont 

de corn, 
No Marster's in de big house, an' no Mistis writes a 

pas', 
No cump'ny's in de green room, an' no chilkms on 

de grass, 
No ice is in de ice-honse, an' no milk is in de churn. 
An' nar a happy nigger now whicheber way you turn. 
Nare boss is in de stable, an' de kitchin neber smokes, 
De people in de neighborhood is mos' all stranger 

fokes. 
Deres jes' de pines an' lowgroun's dat de vis"tor now 

may see, 
Besides my wife, Rebeccy, an' ole Isaac, which is 

me. 
No horn blows out from 'neaf de trees, no houn's de 

foxes chase, 
De dairy's fell to pieces, an' de farm is gone to was'e. 
De cabins' gone to ruin, an' de orchard is mos' dade. 



Uncle Isaac's Lament. 189 

Ocmulgee Stan's all lonesome, an' nuffin' here has 

stade, 
'Cept our ole rickolictions, an' de promise for de 

bles', 
When all dis life is ober an' dar come to us Gord's 

res'. 
I ain't complainin' caze de good Lord's chilluns 

cuarn't complain — 
Bofe jus' an' unjus' yit receibin' ob de latter rain — - 
But all my life in dis worl' dat was joyous an' was 

glad 
Is in de pas' behin' me wid de hap'nes' dat I had. 
I cuarn't be rickonciled at all to what our people 

does, 
De Whiskey is like Turpentime, an' nuffin' what hit 

was. 
De sugar's full ob san' now, an' de meal is groun' too 

line, 
De neighbors is mo' quar'lsome, an' few pussons is so 

kine 
As onct dey was in my young days when joy was in 

de Ian', 



190 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the Soiitli. 

An' fokes had 'nuff to do, Sar, widdout meddlin' wid 

God's plan. 
1 cuarn't be here much longer for I'm gittin' mighty 

ole — 
Lord make me ready to be gwine wheneber T is 

tole! 
An' let me please to stay right here an' lib in de ole 

ways 
Wid peace an, my Rebeccy for de balimce ob my 

days.! 
We'se bofe done retched de topmos' pint ob life's 

resendin' hill. 
An' started down de valley whar de voice ob men is 

still. 
Our feet is creepin' nigh de banks ob deff's myster'- 

ous stream, 
An' life is come to look jes' like 'twarn't nufiin' but a 

dream. 
Yistiddy, Sar, hit seems to me dat me an' my Marse 

Ran' 
Rid out wid dat ole hoss-back troop dey raised in 

Powhatan. 



Uncle Isaac s Lament. 191 

Yistiddy, M'am, my Becky's ha'r was black all o' her 

hade — 
A sprightly gal whose siipplenes' would den, I clar, 

er made 
A willow withe a bendin' feel ob hit's own sef 

ashame. 
An' nar a hick'ry switch could hep' but feel hitsef" de 

same. 
Yistiddv bofe ob us was young, an' all dis Ian' was 

glad, 
To-day we'se ole, an' nuffin's lef ob all de Ian' onct 

had. 
Yistiddy hit was mornin' an' de Sun a shinin' bright. 
To-day de eb'nin' shadders is a runnin' tow'd de 

night. 
We sho' hab retched de eb'nin' time ob dis our 

mortal life. 
An' soon we mus' be gwine away, ole Isaac an' his 

wife. 
De angel wid his book is sarchin' an' he's soon gwine 

call. 



192 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the Sontli. 

An' me an' my Rebeccy will leab here for good an' 

all. 
We'se gwine away my chillims, Yas, fo' many Sum- 
mers pas', 
An' ob de ole plantation fokes I spose we is de las'. 
An' now jes' fo we goes to sleep, dat sleep from which 

we'll wake, 
My mine goes back from night time, M'am, to when 

hit 'twas daybreak. 
A grave is yonder 'neaf dat tree, an' 'neaf hit rests 

de dade, 
x^n' dars de cradle settin' dar wharin Marse Ran' onct 

laid. 
An' dat's de distance stretchin' 'twixt de cradle an' 

de grave, 
A distance dat no eyesight nar a big strain eber gave. 
But night ain't black an' hor'bul, for in hit de bright 

stars shine. 
An' ef you'se knowed de way befo' 'tain't nuffin' to 

be gwine 
Along hits stillnes' happy on yo' tramp to whar 

you'd be; 



Uncle Isaac's Lament. 193 

For him who knows de pines an' hel's 'tain't needful 

for to see 
De pafs dat runs through dem, no matter ef dey 

twists an' tarns, 
You'se only got to walk dat way which in de day you 

larns. 
An' so 'tis wid de eb'nin' time ob life, when hit is 

nigh— 
De " How-dy-do " ain't sweeter den dat good ole 

word " Good-bye " — 
For dem dat's taught a mornin' ob de way de Sabior 

trord. 
Is boun' to walk a eb'nin' time along wid Him to 

Gord. 
He led us in our mornin' an' He'll lead us in our 

night. 
An' Sar, we need not be afraid, we ain't gwine los' 

His light. 
Hit shined in all our gloom, M'am, when de clouds 

come in de day. 
Hit still will shine befo' us when pale def¥ pints out de 

way. 

13 



194 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 

We ain't got fur to go when, Sar, de angel's call is 

made, 
An' den de sperret flies so fas' as soon's de body's 

dade. 
Ole David's tole lis in de Sams dat eben wid a span 
We fokes may medjure all de way 'twixt Heab'n an' 

Powhatan. 
Fm facin' ob de future but my mine is in de pas', 
De mem'ry fixin' Isaac for de man he'll be at las'. 
Caze what we'll be, Miss Kate, mus' be all dat we did 

or sade, 
An' rickolictions bein' what is lef when we is dade, 
'Tis sperret mem'ry dat will be de sperret soul's one 

pledge, 
When hit Stan's face to face wid Gord an' He dat 

sole will jedge. 
I cuarn't destrain mysef from lookin' back a down 

de years, 
An' hit 'tis dat dat makes me moan an' fotches up 

dese tears. 
Good eb'nin' my young Marster, Gord bless you bofe 

Miss Kate. 



Uncle Isaac's Lament. 195 

You don't think now de Sun is sot dat hit 'tis not too 

late 
For you to be a walkin' 'cross de nigh way by de 

crick? 
Caze ef you does I'll go wid you. De ole man wid 

his stick 
Is pretty peart in spite ob age, an' good for yit a 

while — 
'Twould be a pledjure, Sarvant Sar, to go wid you my 

chile. 
All right young Marster, den Good-bye, you'se like 

yo' Par a man, 
An' in de time ob war dar was no braver in his Ian'. 
I'll be obleedged Miss Kate, M'am, ef de nex' time 

dat you come, 
An' you kin git dat Number Six, you'll fetch Rebeccy 

some. 
I'm comin' now Rebeccy, wife. Miss Kate gwine 

come agin. 
Please come Miss Kate tomorrer an' bring her dat 

medecine ! 



THE PASSING OF REBECCA. 




REBECCY." 



THE PASSING OF REBECCA. 



Yo' sarvaiit, my young Mistis, how-dy-do to-day, 
Miss Kate? 

I seed yon comin' 'cross de fiel', an' met yon at de 
gate 

To let you in, an' tell you dat Rebeccy's mighty ill, 

An's got so dreadful narvous dat we keeps de room as 
still 

As we kin do hit, M'am. Do' she ain't one dat much 
complains — 

She's got a heap er courage when hit comes to stand- 
in' pains. 

But come right in, young Mistis, she's spoke much 
ob you to-day, 

Do' hit 'tain't much we understan's ob what she 

tries to say. 

[201] 



202 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 

Come in Miss Kate, but saftly walk when you gits 

on de flo'; 
She'll be rale glad to see you. Mine de step dar at 

de do' ! 
You say fo' you goes in de house you wants to talk 

to me? 
For sartin, M'am, set in dat char, 'tis shady 'neaf de 

tree. 
Yes M'am, T got de Number Six you sont by leetle 

Nade, 
An' Nancy fotched the wine an' tea, de sugar an' de 

brade 
She sade you fixed up for we fokes, an' tole her for 

to bring. 
You'se good to us. I b'lieb, Miss Kate, you thinks 

ob eb'rything 
Dat we all needs. You is dat kine you mines me ob 

yo' Mar, 
Jes' like Marse Charley always mines me also ob yo' 

Par. 
No, M'am, de Number Six dis time don't seem to 

retch de spot 



The Passing of Rebecca. 203 

Wharin lier ailin' an' her mis'ry 'pears to now hab 

got. 
Hit's wuss nor cramps de doctor ses. I b'lieb de 

'sease he named 
As sumpthin' in de bowels dat hab got too much 

enflamed. 
Apendle-sea-tick was de way I cotched his namin' 

word, 
But den I cuarn't be sartin dat dat's 'zactly what I 

yeard. 
Dey's got new names for things dese days, an' mos'ly 

dey is long. 
Heap longer den dey ust er be, an' may be I is 

w^-ong. 
But axin' him de ailment, he reformed me dat he 

foun' 
Apendle-sea-tick in her bad, leas' dat's de way hit 

soun'. 
An' I was doin' all I could to ketch what 'twas he 

sade, 
But to sich hard an' big words I'm not ekal in my 

hade. 



204 Uiiclc Isaac: or Old Days in tJic SoufJi. 

Yistiddy he was here agin, an' felt her all about. 

An' sade he b'liebed 'twould be de bes' for him to cut 

hit out. 
But den he 'peared to hisitate an' 'dopt anodder plan, 
Becaze dat cuttin' at dat time she pos'bul mout not 

Stan'. 
He neber gibed her nufTin', but he made some liquid 

warm. 
An' squirt hit through a syringe in de back part ob 

her arm. 
Hit hope her much a hour or two, an' let her git 

some sleep, 
But arter while de power ob dat physic failed to keep, 
An' sence den she's been narvous an' so res'les' in de 

bade, 
Dat eber sence way in las' night I'se by her badeside 

staid. 
I was afeered she mout git up. You had to watch her 

close, 
An' offen is I wished she had anodder syringe dose 
Ob what ole Doctor Hambleton had squirted in her 

arm, 



TJic Passing of Rebecca. 205 

For luiffin" M'am, dat we could do made her de leas' 

bit calm. 
She mos'l}' whispers to us row, she's got so mighty 

weak, 
So hit's mo' diffikilt to hear air w^ord she tries to 

speak. 
But arly, M'am, dis mornin' fo' her hade was hurt 

wid pain, 
We understood mos' eb'ry word 'twas spoke so bery 

plain. 
She's been a dreamin' ob de pas', de pas' to us so 

dear, 
Dat's way back in de long ago an' yit's so mighty 

near, 
'Twas pitiful to hear her talk as ef de fokes w^as nigh. 
Who long ago bofe ob us saw come one by one to 

die. 
She seed ole Miss an' talked to her jes' like she was 

right thar, 
A settin' in her chamber an' a rockin' in her char. 
She tole her 'bout de sheets an' bades an' 'bout de 

counterpane, 



2o6 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in flic SoiifJi. 

An' whar you chilhins had done gone down in de 

grove or lane. 
She talked 'bont you partic'lar, when dar by her side 

she dreamed 
Yo' Mammy was a standin', an' I clar Miss Kate, hit 

seemed 
Almos' as ef de good ole time had come to us agin, 
An' we was libbin' in dem days dat onct our fokes 

lib1:)ed in. 
Hit 't\Aas so nat'rul who she seed, so nat'rul what she 

spoke, 
Dat I could almos' b'lieb I had been 'sleep an' den 

had woke 
To fine mvse'f all young agin a plowin' in de corn. 
An' my young Marster standin' thar a blowin' ob his 

horn. 
She'd tell yo' Mammy 'bout yo' room, an' ax her 

'bout yo' dress, 
An' 'vise her 'bout yo' dis an' dat as she thunk was 

de bes'. 
Sometimes hit 'twas yo' Mar she saw% who was de 

leetle girl, 



The Passing of Rebecca. 207 

Whose bar her lingers was a twistin' up into a curl, 
But den agin 'twas you she seed, an' den dar'd come 

a smile 
Upon her face an' linger as she tole us 'bout her 

chile, 
An' who dat chile she talked 'bout was bofe me an' 

Nancy knew; 
For dar was sumpthin' in her manner when she spoke 

ob you 
Dat tole a tale ob lub dat come from out a heart as 

true 
As sunshine in de Summer fallin' out de skies so 

blue, 
Tells ob de good Lord's goodnes' to His chilluns in 

dis worl'. 
She lubbed you hard, young Mistis, an' you was her 

leetle girl ! 
Yo' Mammy was her sister, an' when she couldn't 

be about. 
Hit 'twas Ant Becky in her place who ust er to take 

you out 



2o8 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 

To walk, or watch you while yon played dar under- 

iieaf de trees — 
An' nar a time for niiffin' did you hab to ax her 

please. 
She'd gib you her own shadder, M'am, ef hit she 

could er cotched, 
An' what you tole her for to git 'twarn't long befo' 

'twas fotched. 
She lubbed you like yo' Mammy, an' yo' Mammy 

neber mine, 
But seemed to like hit caze to you " Sis Becky " was 

so kine. 
An' yo' ole Mammy lubbed you from yo' hade down 

to yo' feet. 
In ole Virginny nare a word has eber soun' as sweet 
As " Mammy." Dat's de name dat always hurries up 

a smile, 
An' fotches back de good ole times to let dem stay 

a while. 
An' onct she b'liebed she saw Marse Ran', an' on her 

face come joy, 



TJic Passing of Rebecca. 209 

An', M'am, she 'pearecl to want to say, dat's Isaac's 

daiiin' boy. 
An' so he was young' Mistis. an' so was Marse Ran' 

indeed. 
In ah my hfe nar sich a man ole Isaac neber seed. 
Dem Yankees neber knowed at all dat hor'bul, 

bloody day, 
What kine ob sole dey loosened for de Lord to take 

away. 
But she may now be wantin' me. Come Mistis lets 

go in, 
An' ef you wants to ax me mo' I'll come out here 

agin. 
Come in Miss Kate an' see her, she'll be glad to see 

yo' face. 
You'll fine a char dar nigh her bade nex' to de fier- 

place. 
How is she doin' Nancy now? She 'pears to me mo' 

still. 
You thinks she's done got weaker, an' you'se feered 

she's got mo' ill? 

14 



2IO Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 

Miss Kate how does you think she is? Yas M'am, 

she's awful weak, 
An' gittin weaker eb'ry hour. 'Tis time de Lord to 

seek. 
An' yit I is been seekin' Him all eb'ry night an' day. 
He'se }Tard my prars, I kno", but den He'se gwine 

hab His good way. 
Hit's hard to rickoncile down here de answers to yo' 

prar 
When He'se done odder den you axed. We'll 

rickoncile up thar. 
She's passin' from de doctor's power, nobody but de 

Lord 
Kin step in now an' stop de breakin' ob her life's gole 

cord. 
Her eyes is shettin' like in sleep, but dat I kno' ain't 

sleep. 
Dat shettin' ob her eyes, Miss Kate, gwine open mine 

to weep. 
Please 'sense me, my young Mistis, I didn't mean to 

'low dat groan. 



Tlic Passing of Rebecca. 211 

But hit hurts me so awful l^ad to hear Rebeccy 

moan. 
Hit feels jes' like a splinter had been run into my 

sole, 
An' lets my own life run right out untwell I gits dat 

cole 
I shivers an" ni}- heart has cotched a rheumatic ob 

woe 
Dat makes me answer wid a groan at onct befo' I 

kno' 
What I am doin'. Please don't cry Miss Kate, please 

M'am, don't cry ! 
Hit may be dat de good Lord yit ain't gwine to let 

her die. 
Yas M'am. I kno' dat hope is gwine. She's dyin', 

yas. I see. 
My Becky's fadin' out ob life, my wife is gwine lef 

me, 
Lef me de ole man trimblin' an' so wa'ry in his age. 
Good Lord, do tell de angel for to turn anodder 

page 



212 Uiiclc Isaac: or Old Days in tJic SoiitJi. 

In his big" book whar Isaac's name is writ an' time is 

tole, 
An' tell his sole come long right now a jinin' wid her 

sole ! 
For O my Lord, how will I Stan' dis siperation here 
From her who 'mong all peoples is to me de mostes' 

dear? 
Please git de Prar Book Nancy, hit is ober dar some- 

whar, 
An' please Miss Katie open hit an' read out'n hit a 

prar, 
Dat ef de good Lord wills hit my Rebeccy may yit 

stay 
Mo' longer here wid Isaac, an' please den Miss Katie 

pray, 
Dat ef she mns' go yonder whar de troubled is at 

res', 
He'll take her wid His angels in de mansions ob de 

bles'. 
I thanky, M'am, she's easyer, but she's fadin", fadin' 

now, 
Jes' like a vi'let wilts away beneaf de h-os' I 'low. 



Tlic Passing of Rebecca. 213 

Rebeccy does you kno' me? I'se jes' been out to 

de gate, 
An' dis is our young Mistis, don't you kno' her? 'tis 

Miss Kate. 
I b'liel^ she yeard an' understood what hit was dat I 

sade, 
Hit sartin 'peared to me as ef she tried to nod her 

hade. 
An' now her eyes is openin', an' she knows us bofe, I 

b'Heb. 
Thank you, my blessed Savior, for dis blessin' I 

receib ! 
Speak to her now Miss Katie, please speak to her 

now, don't cry, 
'Twill cheer her up a leetle as de valley drawef nigh. 
Or hit may be Gord's marcy will yit leab her here a 

while 
To longer work an' pray. Look ! look. Miss Kate, 

you see dat smile 
Come slowly on her sacred face? Her lips is mur- 

m'rin' too, 
An' I mos' kno' 'tis meant to be a welcomin' for you. 



214 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in flic South. 

An' did you hear her den, Miss Kate, in dat one 

whispered word? 
I'm sho' she sade " Good-bye," dat's hit, " Good-bye," 

dat's what I yeard. 
Gord bles' yon my sweet Mistis, for dat ole time 

Mammy kiss ! 
I kno' hit let her body tas'e onct mo' a erfly bhss. 
An' now I'se kissed her too onct mo'. Kin hit be my 

las' time 
Befo' she sees de golden stars an' np dem starts to 

clime? 
She's lookin' at me now agin. Gord bles' dem sweet 

ole eyes, 
Dey wall be watchin' me so soon from out ob Gord's 

blue skies ! 
Dar, dar, I yeard hit sho' dis time, wid deff's cole 

ban' so nigh ! 
Hit come so plain upon my ears, " Isaac, Isaac, 

Good-bye ! " 
Good-bye Rebeccy, far — farwell, Gord's got you in 
His arm, 



Tlic Passing of Rebecca. 215 

Yoii'se in de valley ob de shadder, but you won't 

meet harm. 
Through all de darkness an' de danger Gord yo' sole 

will take, 
An' in de takin' ob Gord's chile no mistake will Christ 

make. 
Feel Nancy. Does you feel her heart give yit a single 

beat? 
Done stopped ! Good-bye my wife, Rebeccy always 

good an' sweet ! 
My eyes won't cry, Miss Kate, my heart jes' aches, 

my lips cuarn't groan, 
My life's done gone, done gone, done gone, ole 

Isaac's lef alone! 
Alone in all de ole man's age, alone in all his pain ! 
But Gord will gib him strength an' peace so dat he 

cuarn't complain. 
Alone 'mongst all de strangers, alone 'mongst dem 

dat's born 
In dese new days dat he don't kno' ! Rebeccy is you 

eone? 



2i6 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the SoniJi. 

Gone from yo' hnsban' Isaac, gone up to yo' heab'nly 

res'? 
I don't kno' how he'll stan' hit, but Gord's done hit 

for de bes'. 
" Don't let yo' heart git troubled, an' don't let hit 

git afraid," 
Dat's what de Scriptur tells you is de words de 

Savior sade. 
I feels yo' han', Miss Katie, M'am, you blessed angel 

chile ! 
You wants to lead me to de char to set in hit a 

while? 
I cuarn't set down now Honey, please jes' let de ole 

man stay 
Right here by his Rebeccy dade, to look an' lub, an' 

pray. 
You'se cryin' hard yo'se'f my chile, you set down in 

de char. 
Ole Isaac's lef here by hese'f, Rebeccy, she's gone 

thar! 
But when de angel trumpet's blowin' from whar 

angels bide 



The Passing of Rebecca. 217 

Rebeccy'll come for Isaac, an' she'll be his angel 

guide. 
She's in de good Lord's presense an' a jinin' in de 

song 
De angels sing befo' Him, an' hit sho'ly cuarn't be 

long 
Befo' ole Isaac's Sun gwine down behin' de trees an' 

set. 
Rebeccy, I'm a comin', may de Lord my moans 

forget ! 
I almos' hear de angels' call, hit mns' be nigh my 

day, 
An' you'll come down Rebeccy, for to sho' me up de 

way. 
Why Nancy, is you let dat chile go 'lone dis time a 

night? 
I could a walked along wid her. My Nancy, hit' 

'twarn't right. 
But nar a sole gwine tech dat chile, o' her de angels 

watch, 
An' when she knocks on heaben's do' dar'll be a 

hysted latch. 



2i8 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 

Go tell de neighbors 'bout hit please. Dey'll come 

an' do deir part. 
Rebeccy, Isaac's comin' ! Yo' deff is broke his heart ! 



UNCLE ISAAC IN THE SONG. 



UNCLE ISAAC IN THE SONG. 



Sing low, my Mistis, low, sing low, dat is de ole 
time tune 

We yeard in de ole happy days when all de months 
was June. 

Sing low, my Mistis, low, sing low, dat is de song- 
Miss Kate. 

I spec' dat my Rebeccy mus' be lis'nin' at de gate. 

She'll cotch dem words an' 'member, dey's de ones 
she lubbed so well. 

'Twas in dem words all on us onct our hap'nes' ust 
er tell, 

A voicin' ob our giadnes', an' a chantin' in sweet 
hope, 

Wid dem sweet soun's ob music twdsted up jes' like 

a rope, 

[221] 



222 Undc Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 

An stretchin' an' a stretchin' from de yearth up to 

de skies — 
Our soles a shinin' an' a speakin' in our yearnin' 

eyes. 
Sing low, my Mistis, low, sing low, I'm libbin' in de 

pas', 
Sing low, my Mistis, low, sing low, an' let dis pled- 

jur las'. 
Yo' Par is comin' out'n de house, yo' Mar is on de 

lawn, 
Marse Ran' is whistlin' at de barn, nobody now is 

gone. 
.Sing low, my Mistis, low, sing low, de music's 

cotched my sole, 
I feels my days come back agin, I'm done forgot I'm 

ole. 
Unk' Julvus' in de dinin' room, an' Mary's at de 

churn, 
An' Peyton's on de carridge box a drivin' roun' de 

turn. 
I hear de cradles swishin', an' de san' upon de blade. 
An' nar a sweeter music in dis Ian' was eber made. 



Uiicic Isaac in the Song. 223 

Sing low, my Mistis, low, sing low, Yas, dar's yo 

unkle Bill, 
An' yonder comes de cows a windin' up de cow-lot 

hill, 
Dar's Austin' too a drivin' dem, an' dar is Nancy 

Ann, 
Dey'll Stan' for her to milk dem like for nare one else 

■ dey'll Stan'. 
Sing low, my Mistis, low, sing low, dat song ob long 

ago— 
De bloom is on de clover, an' de Summer breezes 

blow. 
Sing lo\\', my Mistis, low, sing low, I trimble I'm 

so glad, 
Dar's comin' back in music thought ob all dem things 

we had. 
Sing low, my Mistis, low, sing low, I hear unk' John 

agin 
A playin' on his banjo for de dance we'se gwine jine 

in. 
Dar's Poleyun an' ole Frances — lean de hoe aginst de 

plow. 



224 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the Soutli. 

Dat's Isaac an' Rebeccy, dey's gwine sho' you sump- 
thin' now. 
Sing' low, my Mistis, low, sing low, full is de abenue 
Ob gentle fokes a comin' to de weddin' ob Miss Sue. 
Sing low, my Mistis, low, sing low, I hears agin de 

drum, 
An' yonder is yo' Par a gwine, Marse Ran' an' me 

gwine come. 
I hears de war a breakin', an' I sees de bloody dade, 
A thousan' things is ramblin' wid de music in my 

hade. 
Sing low, my Mistis, low, sing low, What makes you 

sing so low? 
Hit's all a fadin, fadin, ob dem years ob long ago. 
Sing low, my Mistis, low, sing low, you sings 

M'am mos' too low. 
De trees is sot to sighin' an' de ribber runs mo' slo'. 
An' in de pines 'tis gittin' dark, dem faces fade 

away, 
De music dream is passin', but hit brung me back a 

day 



Uncle Isaac in the Song. 225 

Dat was de sunshine ob my life, de joy ob all my 

fokes. 
'Tis strange how out de long ago dese things de 

music coax. 
Sing low, my Mistis, low, sing low, sing low, sing 

low, Miss Kate, 
You hear de whippow'ill, de Sun's gwine down, 'tis 

late, 'tis late. 
We mus' be gwine. Sing low% sing low^, sing low, jes' 

one line mo' 
In dat ole tune. Sing low, sing low, my Mistis, low, 

sing low — 
A driftin' out er hearin' like de sunshine out er sight; 
Low, loAv, so low. Hit's gone, my Mistis, gone. 

Ole time eood nieht. 



15 



THE PASSING OF UNCLE ISAAC. 



THE PASSING OF UNCLE ISAAC. 



I kno'ed you'd come, Marse Charley, Good Ebenin' ! 

How does I do? 
I'm poly an' I cuarn't las' long, Marse Charley how is 

you? 
Miss Kate cuarn't come. Yas Sar, I yearn dat she'd 

done gone away 
To see her Ant, Miss Mary. Is she gwine make 

much er stay? 
I spec' she won't see me no mo', de ole man's gwine 

dis time. 
An' I ain't sorry, not at all, dat kin not be a crime. 
You don't think so young Marster, you don't think 

dat dat is wrong, 
When all my wurk is done down here an' yonder I 

belong? 
Mos' all my gineration's gone beyant de lofty skies — 

[229] 



230 Ujiclc Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 

Hit 'tain't gwine make no diffrunce 'bout when one 

mo' ole man dies. 
De worl' won't neber miss me, an' de people won't 

complain ; 
Dey'U shed no tears o' Isaac, an' his deff won't gib 

no pain. 
I am so ole an' crippled up I ain't no count no mo'. 
I'll be obleedged Marse Charley ef you'll kinely shet 

dat do'. 
I'm gittin' ole, an' any draf gits pow'ful nigh de 

bone. 
My rheumatics is techy, an' dey constant makes me 

groan 
When through de do' de Winter air comes driftin' in 

so cole. 
You cuarn't stan' what you ust er stan' arfter you 

gits so ole. 
I'm glad I'm gwine, Marse Charley, for I'm lone- 
sum now down here, 
An' yonder whar de angels lib is many fokes so dear. 
Ole Marster's gone dis many a day, an' Mistis' she's 

eone too, 



TJie Passuig of Uncle Isaac. 231 

Marse Peyton, an' Marse Ran', Miss Ann, Marse 

Willyum, an' Miss Sue; 
Dey all in dat procession passed on through de 

heab'nly gate — ■ 
What for kin I a po' ole man want longer for to wait? 
My wife is dar, Unc' Ceesar, an' Unc' Andrew, an' 

ole Nat, 
Dey too has crossed de shinin' ribber whar de ange — , 

What's dat? 

^ ^ i\i ^ ^ ■^ ^ ^ ^ 

I yearn a gentle whisper like a banjo playin' near, 
In leetle notes ob music, dat come saftly to my ear. 
I b'lieb hit 'twas de angels. Would de good Lord do 

me so. 
Sen' angels for to welcome me upon dat peaceful 

sho'? 
I cuarn't be good enuff for sich a blessin', hit 'tain't 

me 
Dem blessed singin' angels was a tryin' for to see. 
'Tis gone agin. May be hit 'twarn't one ob dem pale 

defif's signs, 



232 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the SoiitJi. 

But jes' de wile win' driftin' through de wavy low- 

groiin' pines. 
De ole plantation now ain't like what onct hit list er 

be, 
Befo' dem Yankees fotched us war an' sot de niggers 

free. 
De weeds is in de meadow, an' de pastur ain't no 

count. 
An' nar a hoss, Marse Charley, dat is fit for you to 

mount. 
De house is rick'ty, an' de barns an' stable's mos' 

fell down, 
De fences is all busted an' a rottin' on de groun' ; 
De niggers' changed for wuster, an' dey's lef dis 

good ole place. 
An' ob de things dat onct was our'n dars scacely lef 

a trace. 
My heart mos' break when Marster died, an' eber 

sence dat day 
I larned to kno' dat I don't suit dese fokes new 

fashion way. 
I lub dat cradle in de barn, I lub de ole time plow, 



TJic Passing of Uncle Isaac. 233 

I don't like none de fangled things de 'ventions brung 

us now. 
De rose is drapped from off de poach, mos' dried np 

is de spring — 
Some ebil's come upon de Ian' an' ruined eb'rything. 
Hit 'pears to me de lan's got po', de skies ain't near 

so blue, 
Mos' eb'rything is ole or gone an" Isaac's gwine now 

too. 
De Sun's gwine down Marse Charley, ain't hit? So 

hit 'pears to me. 
Hit's gittin' dark in here, so dark, I scace kin hardly 

see. 
\\ bar's Nancy? Nancy git de light'ud an' make a 

leetle light, 
Marse Charley don't want set in here when hit's as 

black as night. 
You say you'se done hit, you'se done lit hit? Nancy 

is you sho'? 
Why, Honey, bless you, I cuarn't see no mo'n I could 

befo'. 



234 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 

I'm feelin' coler too now, an' a chill's come in my 

bres', 
I spec' dis is a sartin sign 'tain't long befo' my res'. 

Is dat you callin' 'Poleyun, you'se gwine hab a dance 

to-night? 
Dat's good ! De clouds is gone by, an" de moon'll be 

shinin' bright. 
We'll meet down by de cabin dar beneaf de big oak 

tree. 
Unc' John will fetch his banjo, an' my Becky'll come 

wid me. 

^ >;; ;[; ;i; :^ ;|; ^ >i< ^ 

Yas Sar, yo' boss is ready an' a standin' at de rack, 
Marse Ran' done blowed his horn an" rid down 
yonder wid de pack. 

Yas M'am, I see dem playin', dey's out yonder in de 

Sun ; 
Fse tole ole Nat, Yas M'am, he ses de dinner's almos' 

done. 

:1: jK ^ 5l< ^ ^ ^ >i: >K 



Tlie Passing of Uncle Isaac. 235 

'Pears like I'se been a dreamin' ob de ole days dat is 

pas', 
I saw de ole fokes on de poach, de chilluns on de 

grass, 
I yeard de banjo playin', an' I yeard de niggers sing 
Dat song abont de lowgroun's, an' I danced like 

eb'rything. 
Ouch ! Ouch, Marse Charley, dars a nawful mis'ry 

settin' in 
My chist. My battle wid de inimy is gwine begin. 
Lord Jesus, I is not afeered, I lubbed you all my 

life, 
I larnt to from dat angel dat on erf was onct my 

wife. 
I'm ready now to leab here, an' to come to you dis 

day. 
I b'liebs in you. Lord Jesus, please wash all my sins 

away ! 
Marse Charley pray a prar for me; an' would you hole 

my hade? 
I hilt Marse Ran' dat way when dem mean Yankees 

shot him dade. 



236 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 

Hit feels so good, Marse Charley. Dar! I hear de 

music's hum — 
Good-bye Marse Charley, far — , farwell — . Rebeccy, 

Tse done come ! 



THE OLD SONG. 



THE OLD SONG. 



Down in the lowgToimds where the rustic cabin 
stands, 
And pines lean gamit against the sky, 
I hear again the weird caronsing of the hands, 
Their low and quaint old lullaby. 
Moaning and crooning and strong, 
Through the grove it sweeps along. 
The low, sad, negro's song. 

Again 'tis moonlight in a year long gone away — 

The Summer breeze a perfimie brings 
From down the sleeping meadow sweet with new 
mown hay, 
And wastral chant of one who sings. 
Moaning and crooning and strong, 
Through the grove it sweeps along, 
The low, sad, negro's song. 
[239] 



240 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 

Now like the soughing wind, in solemn, rhymeless 
lay, 
So soft and low and sad it swells; 
Then stronger still the chorus bursts in sadder way, 
As it some superstition tells. 

Moaning- and crooning and strong, 
Through the grove it sweeps along. 
The low, sad, negro's song. 

Beyond the fields and woods the music fades and dies, 

Then as inspired begins again; 
The bending pines harmonious with their plaintive 
sighs 
Blend kindly with the weirder strain. 
Moaning and crooning and strong, 
Through the grove it sweeps along, 
The low, sad, negro's song. 

O, night of year from out my happy past remain ! 

Come back from out those days, Old Song ! 
Sing softly, murmur, croon ye men its old refrain, 
My memory holds it yet too strong. 
Moaning and crooning and strong, 
Through the grove it sweeps along, 
The low, sad, negro's song. 



MAMMY. 



MAMMY. 



Did you hear me praying Mammy when you heard 

the angels' cah? 
I was sitting on the cricket near the staircase in the 

hall. 
They told me you were going to my mother over 

there; 
And I told the Lord I loved you in the mystery of 

prayer. 
I remember you, old Mammy, in the days of long 

ago, 
When a lad in many a mischief I poured out to you 

my woe. 
I remember well the hoe-cake that you gave me every 

noon, 
x\nd the l)ed in which you put me every night, 1 

thought too soon. 

[243] 



244 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the Soittli. 

I can still say " Now I lay me," which you nightly 

prompted then, 
With the following petitions to the last word, and 

Amen. 
And with crooning song yon won me to the blessed 

rest of sleep; 
My peace was yours, old Manmiy, and when weeping 

yon did weep. 
Boy and man yon loved me Mammy, man and boy T 

loved yon too, 
And the bond of love's own making binds me 

Mammy still to yon. 
They ha\'e tc^ld me in the graveyard yon lie buried 

with the dead. 
But I knew they were mistaken when to me these 

words they said. 
For thy soul hath lifted upward, and on Nature's 

kindly breast 
Thy worn body is contenting in the ministry of 

rest. 
You hnxe met again mv mother in the meed of 

sacrifice, 



Mammy. 245 

And the angels at that meeting heard my name in 

Paradise. 
I can hear yon calHng-, Mammy, now from where the 

angels stay, 
And I'm coming, dear old Mammy, when they show 

me, too, the way. 



THE END. 



^ul. jiifCi hj 



His 



